The Last Tribute: Peeta's Story
by BodoniBold
Summary: We all know the story of the Mockingjay, the girl who was on fire. The girl who, against all odds, brought down a corrupt nation with her spirit, with her fire...and with her love. Or do we? This is the story of the Hunger Games as seen through the eyes of Peeta Mellark.
1. Chapter 1

The Last Tribute: Peeta's Story

Part I: The Reaping

**Chapter 1**

I wake in the pre-dawn darkness with a start, sweat plastering me to the sheets, a dull ache throbbing behind my eyes. Even though the window is wide open, my room is stiflingly hot. With the ovens running all day, it never gets cool upstairs, especially not in the summer. I sit up, stretching my arms high above my head as I wait for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The sky holds not a hint of sunlight, not even the song birds have begun chirping. I know almost immediately I won't be able to go back to sleep, even if the room were cool, even if I didn't have to be up in an hour, because today is the day of the reaping.

I drag on clothes that spent the night draped over the foot of my bed, an almost clean white shirt and dark pants, then slip on my most comfortable pair of shoes. Wrapping a white apron around my waist, I walk down the stairs to my family's bakery.

I pass through the darkened storefront with its clear glass display cases for desserts and wide shelves for breads and make my way to the back where the hulking shadow of the ovens, twin wood burning giants encased in brick, greet me. As a kid, the ovens terrified me. Brought to life by my imagination, they became two blazing, watchful eyes, ready to burn me alive. Now, taming the flames is second nature.

I make sure the fires are fully stoked, feeding the ovens a few pieces of seasoned wood, then I check on the dough we made yesterday. I find it sitting under the work bench in three bins that each hold a hundred pounds, fully proofed and puffy like a cloud.

After rolling my sleeves up, I heave the hundred pound batch of dough onto the work bench. The white mass lurches across the table like something alive, sending excess flour and yeast swirling through the air where it rains down on top of me. It's a smell I've grown up with, the smell of home, of any other day. It almost seems wrong to be doing something so ordinary on reaping day.

Most other shops in the square are closed, the doors locked and the inhabitants still sleeping above their storefronts. The same is true of the coal mines that make up the bulk of industry in District 12. But I don't have that luxury. Reaping day is one of the busiest days for the bakery. We open early and stay open until noon, which is cutting it close because the reaping starts at two.

I dust the top of the huge lump of dough with extra flour and begin cutting it into one pound sections, weighing each in my hand, testing for that well known heaviness before kneading and shaping the formless blobs into taut loaves. The work is easy. Some recipes demand a lot of attention, but this is our simplest dough, one I learned when I was four-years-old. It only has five ingredients: flour, salt, yeast, water, and oil.

"You know that one's a little light." I turn around to find my father leaning against the door, his flour smeared apron already in place. He's a broad shouldered, quiet man. People say I look like my father, but the blond hair and blue eyes we share are pretty common in town.

"It's not," I say. "Use the scale if you don't believe me."

He takes the offending loaf over to the cast-iron scale that's been in our family for more generations than anyone can remember. Etched and worn, any paint that once covered its base long gone, the Mellark scale is my favorite thing in the bakery. It's still perfectly accurate, too. We don't always use it for bread making where feel is more important than exact measurements, but it's necessary for measuring the ingredients for cakes and pastries. The scale clangs down to the one pound mark. My father grunts. "Guess I was wrong."

"Or maybe, you've been making too many heavy loaves for _certain_ customers," I say.

My father is in the habit of making the bread for trading to the poorer families slightly heavier. He trades them for things we could buy from the other merchants, but we don't. It's something my mother hates. She thinks trading for meat or soap or cheese is beneath us.

Since she's the daughter of the former district mayor, she thinks everyone is beneath her. I sometimes wonder what my father saw in her. They are so different, she's the last person who would hand out extra food to the poor. And maybe she's right. Most of the residents of District 12 are struggling to get by, some are barely surviving. An extra half pound of bread can't change that.

An image comes unbidden to my mind of a small gaunt girl collapsed beneath the apple tree in the yard. No, I am wrong, an extra half pound of bread can be the difference between life and death.

He walks back over to the bench next to me, taking one of the sectioned off pieces.

"Well, people—"

"—still have to eat," I finish for him.

My father has been the baker for District 12 for the last twenty years, like his father before him. The job usually falls to the eldest son, but my oldest brother, Rieska, is marrying Clara Hanson, the only daughter of the sweets shop owner and is set to take over that business. He's apprenticing under his future father-in-law now, learning all there is to know about making candy. It's a small shop, much smaller than the bakery, because refined sugar is rare in our district and the candy is very expensive. Almost no one but the mayor's family and Peacekeepers can afford to shop there. They're almost the only ones who buy our cakes and cookies, too.

As for my other brother Hagan, he couldn't bake to save his life. He's never made a loaf of bread that could be sold. I'm convinced he does it on purpose. There's no way anyone could be that bad. His real passion is wrestling. He's won almost every wrestling tournament in our district for the last four years. He'll probably become junior coach later this year. After his last reaping.

That leaves me to run the bakery. I don't mind, it's not as if there are very many choices. Not like in the Capitol where people can train to be almost anything from artists to animal trainers. I used to wish I could run away to the Capitol and become a famous artist like I saw on television. It seemed so beautiful and exciting there. That was before I understood how our world works. The only way to the Capitol for a boy from District 12 is on the Reaping Train.

"I remember when I was your age…" my father begins before trailing off. His hands continue to fold the dough in on itself.

I wait for him to finish his thought, but what is there to say? That I'll get through this? That it won't be me? He can't guarantee that. Even saying it is forbidden. In the eyes of the Capitol, to be chosen in the reaping is an honor. To hope your child isn't selected is seen as disloyal. Even in District 12, the middle of nowhere, we can't be sure what we say in our own homes isn't being monitored, that our neighbors won't turn us in to the Peacekeepers.

I look at my father, the resigned stoop to his shoulders. What must it be like to be the parent of a reaping age child? Or even before that, knowing what the future holds. My father has a kind heart, maybe too kind. I hide a lot of things from him, because he's so kind. It doesn't seem fair to burden him.

It's a shame the Capitol doesn't have the same restraint. My father's already gone through this once himself and now he has to do it again with his sons. To stand there and watch. It's a different kind of torture. I don't know which one is worse.

"I know," I say. "Two more years and this will all be behind us."

My father nods and starts back working. I slam my piece of dough flat with the palm of my hand. Of course, it never really ends. Someone's kid is always chosen. I force myself to calm down. I'm not the angry one, it's my mother or my brother, but that's not me. Today is hard enough without being angry. Everyone is tense on reaping day, the bottled up resentment too close to the surface. I fall into the familiarity of the task, into the feel of warm, smooth dough beneath my hands.

Before the morning's barely begun, we've formed over two hundred loaves of five different breads: plain, dill, olive, roasted onion, and cheese. The first two are already baking while the last three are having their final proof beside the warm oven.

I begin working on my favorite task in the bakery, frosting the cakes. Since the Capitol treats the reapings as if they are worth celebrating, we in the districts are required to follow suit. On the day of the reaping, we're allowed to have a fresh two layer white cake with icing. This is a something we only have for the reaping. Even our birthdays are celebrated with the odd and ends cut from the cakes for paying customers.

I put the cake on a turn table and fill a piping bag with frosting, inhaling the sweet scent of buttercream before twisting the bag closed. I practice my rosettes in white on this year's cake. It's a simple technique, really just a series of curlicues, but it needs patience and a steady hand.

The jingle of the bell over the front door draws my father away from scoring the surface of the latest batch going into the oven. He takes the tray of freshly baked bread with him to the front of the bakery, holding it high as he passes through the swinging double doors. Who could that be? Very few people come to the bakery this early, unless they're here to trade with my father before my mother gets up.

I sit up a little straighter, it could be _her_. I force the thought back down and focus on the cake. I frown down at the last rosette that's crooked and misshapen. I scrap it off with my spatula and add the blob of frosting back to the piping bag. There's no reason to get excited. So what if it is her? I've seen her almost every day for years without ever talking to her, that isn't going to change today. It's ridiculous anyway. Really. Having feelings about what amounts to a childhood crush. She doesn't even remember, it was eleven years ago, after all…


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

That was the year birds fascinated me. I could spend hours watching them, drawing them. I would try to imagine what they did beyond the high fence that encircles our district, dream about how it felt to be free, soaring through the clouds. I started collecting the crumbs from the bakery to feed the birds so I could get a little closer. My favorites were the mockingjays. One in particular with a pure white spot on its head seemed to be waiting for me each day at noon.

Unlike most songbirds, mockingjays can memorize and mimic both other bird's calls and human voices. They can learn whole songs with multiple verses. I would try to get the mockingjay to pick up the little tunes I would sing, but it didn't seem interested in mimicking me. I've never been a very good singer.

On my very first day of school I went to feed the birds in the morning since I wouldn't be home until late. The sun was just peeking over the horizon as I dragged the dust bin full of crumbs outside. To my surprise, my favorite bird was already there to greet me.

"What are you doing, Peeta Mellark?" my mother said. When she wants to, she can make my name sound like a curse. At the best of times she is indifferent to me. It's always worse when she notices.

She stormed out from the bakery's back door with the broom in her hand, still in her dressing gown. I froze in mid-throw, the bread crumbs still cupped in my palms. I knew immediately where I went wrong. My mother always swept the front of the bakery before it opened and she had come looking for the dust bin. She yanked me backwards and I went sprawling to the ground.

"I was just…just feeding the birds," I said.

"Feeding the birds! With what? Our bread?" my mother said.

"Just the crumbs…." She weighed the broom in her hand before deciding to slap me instead, the sound loud in the quiet courtyard. I bit my tongue and the taste of blood filled my mouth.

"You stupid boy, that bread is our life. And you, you're giving it to birds. Don't you know that this bread is the only thing between us and dying in the filthy street?" she screamed.

At that moment, my mockingjay with the white spot flew between me and my mother. I don't know if my mother startled it or if it was trying to protect me, but I couldn't protect it from the handle of her broom. The blow knocked the bird to the ground where it struggled for a moment before my mother drove the handle end of broom into its head.

I cried out and I must have knocked my mother down in my dash to get to my mockingjay, because she was on her hands and knees, but I wasn't paying attention. I could only see the bloody, twitching remains of something that, moments ago, was alive and free. I looked for the white spot that marked it as my mockingjay, but its entire skull was smashed beyond recognition. The tears dripped down my face, like the mockingjay's blood that turned the dirt to mud.

That's when my father came outside. My mother, still on the ground, pointed a finger at me.

"Your son was feeding our bread to birds and when one of the mindless things attacked me, he knocked me over." She took that moment to stand up and grab me by my collar. "He needs to be punished."

My father took another look at the scene before him: my irate mother, the dead bird and my tearstained face, one side still red where she'd slapped me.

"I think he's been punished enough," he said. He came and picked me up and started to carry me away.

"This is your fault," she said poking a sharp finger into his chest. You're always encouraging him to waste time with pointless drawings, dreaming the day away. He needs to learn that life isn't easy. That it isn't like those childish stories you read him, it's a battle. And food isn't something you throw away with both hands!"

"Life's a battle?" he laughed, a bitter edge to his voice. "I think the Capitol will teach our boys that lesson in a few years. I'd rather they stay children a little while longer." At the time I didn't understand what he meant, but the grating derisive tone of his voice frightened me. I'd never heard my gentle, reserved father talk like that.

He carried me to the large sink in the bakery.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he said. He wiped my face. "I'm sorry about your little bird, but your mother is right about one thing, bread is life and we can't just throw it away." He adjusted my drab school uniform. "The birds know how to take care of themselves. We have to worry about feeding people."

I remember the aching hollowness in my chest on that first walk to school. Earlier, I'd been nervous about what to expect, but the events of the morning left me numb. My brothers had run ahead to meet their friends, but I dragged behind, staying close to my father.

As we edged toward the imposing gray building that houses all the children of District 12, I heard the call of a mockingjay. My mockingjay hadn't been able to take care of itself. Why else did it come back every day? It had needed me. Now it was dead because of me. I saw the bloody remains of the bird in my mind and tears threatened to start again.

My father distracted me by pointing out a girl in a red plaid dress with two long, dark braids. She ran down a hill ahead of a woman with blonde hair carrying a baby. They settled into the line behind the other first year children and their parents.

"You see that little girl?" my father said.

I nodded, trying to fight back the tears.

"I wanted to marry her mother," he said. "But she ran off with a coal miner."

I looked again at the woman trying to keep up with the little girl. She was blonde and blue-eyed like the people in town, like my mother. But, unlike my mother, she laughed, watching the antics of the tiny girl who fluttered around her, dark braids flapping in the air.

"Why would she want a coal miner, if she could have had you?" I asked.

He smiled ruefully, "Because when he sings, even the birds stop to listen."

I thought of my mockingjay and its reluctance to even repeat my simple song. Her father must be amazing to command the attention of those birds. Throughout the day, I couldn't forget what my father told me.

By music assembly, I wondered if the girl, whose name turned out to be Katniss Everdeen, had the same gift. When the teacher asked if anyone knew the Valley Song her hand shot up, stick straight. The teacher stood her up on a stool next to me, her scuffed patent leather shoes covered in a layer of soot. And the girl started singing.

In the Capitol they have famous singers with enhanced voices that reach the highest and lowest notes; beautiful, but synthetic. Her voice was the opposite of that, pure and achingly sweet. It is the only thing I remember about that day at school. It washed the numbness away. This was how I imagined birds felt in flight. I listened for the birds that had been chirping outside the window, but they'd fallen silent.

Eleven years later, I haven't been able to forget her, haven't been able to shake the feeling that we are somehow connected.

Despite my feelings, we've never become close. We've never even spoken to each other. We don't have any mutual friends and she spends most of her time hunting in the woods. It's illegal and carries severe penalties if caught, but a few kids from the poorest part of the District, called the Seam, are desperate enough and hungry enough to sneak under the fence to hunt. And she's good at it, the best in the district with a bow and arrow. My father always makes a point to buy her game.

I walk over and get the latest batch of bread, pulling them, row by row, out of the hot oven. It's the dill bread, the crust a lacquered brown speckled with green. I fiddle with the loaves trying to catch a peep of our customer through the closed doors. After a few more exchanged words, the front door jingles again and my father comes back into the baking area.

"Ready for a little breakfast?" he asks. He pulls a small skinned animal from a sack, "Not shot through the eye, but still in one piece."

My tentative hope slips out from beneath me. It wasn't Katniss Everdeen, here to trade game or her sister's goat cheese for bread after all. Katniss is almost always a perfect shot. Our visitor must have been Gale Hawthorne, second best hunter in the district and, with any luck, a close relative of Katniss. They do look alike with their dark hair and gray eyes, but so do half the people in the Seam. They spend their time together hunting in the woods. No one knows if it's romantic or not, to the disgust of the school's female population who all seem to have outsized crushes on Gale.

"Still trading good bread for the Seam kids' rats? Better not let Mother find out. We'll be hearing about it for a month." Hagan says, finally making an appearance.

Along with being my brother, Hagan is my best friend. He's also lazy, irreverent, and a hothead. He looks merchant like my whole family, but his eyes are closer to gray than blue. My mother claims it's because my father has too much Seam blood in his veins. As if that were something to be ashamed of. He's taller than me, more like my father, and we all have the same unruly blond hair.

"Still having trouble telling time?" I ask. I finish our cake and start on one for the customers. We always sell a few cakes on reaping day. I take out the spatula and concentrate on adding a crumb coat of buttercream frosting to a two layer cake.

"Hagan, you were supposed to be down here an hour and a half ago," my father says, getting out a cast iron skillet. "And I can do what I want with my own bread."

"Have a little pity on me," he says, putting his hand over his heart. "This may be the last morning you ever see me. I could be reaped this afternoon. My name's in that glass bowl seven times."

My father frowns. "Don't joke about that. It isn't funny. Some of those Seam kids, as you call them, have their name in that bowl fifty times."

Normally your name goes into the reaping bowl once for each year between the ages of twelve and eighteen. That means at twelve, your name goes in once and at eighteen your name is in the bowl seven times. But that's not always true for poorer kids. These kids have a greater chance of being reaped because of the tesserae. A tessera is a year's worth of grain and oil given in exchange for extra entries in the reaping.

At the age of twelve, any child in any district can sign up for the tesserae, both for themselves and for their families. Say for instance, at twelve, you're the oldest kid in a family of six. If you were poor and desperate, you could take out the tesserae for your whole family. You would be given enough grain and oil to feed each member of your family for a year, but instead of once, your name would go into the reaping seven times—once because it had to, and six times for the tesserae. So that twelve-year-old would be just as likely to be reaped as an eighteen-year-old who has never had to take out the tesserae. If you had to take out tesserae for your family each year, by the time you're eighteen, forty-nine slips with your name would go into the reaping bowl.

There will be five slips of paper with my name on it because, as the baker's son, I have never had to take a tessera. Five little slips that could mean my death. I can't imagine having dozens of slips in the reaping bowl, but it's the reality for most. In our population of 8,000 there are only about a thousand reaping age kids in the whole district, but there are always many more times that number of slips. Katniss most likely takes out tesserae for herself, her sister, and her mother. How many entries will she have in that bowl this year?

"It is comforting to know that…" Hagan finishes in the obnoxious Capitol accent, "…the odds are in my favor."

Each district has its accent, but the people in the Capitol sound as though they are purposely speaking through their noses—high, affected, and ridiculous. It would be funny if these weren't the same people running our country.

"You should be grateful that you haven't had to make the same sacrifices as some of the kids in our district."

"Maybe not the same sacrifices, but I've had my share. And my chances of being reaped aren't zero, neither are Peeta's."

He looks at me and I know he's thinking about the beatings we've both had at the hands of our mother. For some reason, our mother has always worshipped our eldest brother, Rieska, but shows nothing but anger to me and Hagan. I don't know how Rieska did it. For years I tried to be exactly like him, tried so hard to be perfect. Hagan did too, but nothing ever worked. It got to the point where we both gave up and started taking care of each other. I don't think our father knows how severe some of the beatings have been, hasn't heard about the stitches we learned to give each other.

We learned to hide the bruises, even from him. With our father busy with the only bakery in the district, neither of us wanted to end up in the community home for orphaned and neglected children. The children there are just as likely to be beaten and less likely to be fed. All of it has made Hagan angry, resentful of both our parents.

Our mother softened when Hagan started winning wrestling tournaments. She would place his trophies on the sitting room mantle with real pride. It motivated me to wrestle, too. Unlike Hagan, I have no genuine love for the sport, but after years of hauling bags of flour, I'm good at it. The only person I ever lose to is Hagan and even that is becoming less frequent.

"I'll be glad when today is over and we can put this behind us for another year," I repeat, to end the conversation before it can become a full blown argument.

"Hagan, can you please go mind the front of the bakery until your mother gets up?" my father asks. He then slides the squirrel into the heated skillet, the smell of meat competing with baking bread.

My mother never gets up before noon on the day of the reaping. She is always sad and withdrawn, we know not to bother her.

Hagan stalks off to the front of the bakery and my father sits down to eat the squirrel. He offers some to me, but I have some of yesterday's cheese bread instead.

Gale's great at what he does and all, but I don't want to eat his squirrel.

After about an hour of hearing the constant jingle of the front door as customers come and go, raised voices echo back into the kitchen. I look over at my father, but he just sighs. "Can you please go and get your brother before someone kills him." Then he pales as he remembers what today is.

I dust my hands off on my apron and go through the double doors that lead to the front. A short line of people shuffles impatiently as my brother argues with Ruthe Thornton, one of the richest women in the district. As the shipping director for the coal mines in District 12, she's used to ordering people around and right now, she's using her impressive skills on Hagan. Although she's a short, round woman my brother is the one overwhelmed.

"…but, I can't come back. I need to pick up the cake now," Ruthe says as I walk up.

"As I just said, all special orders are available at eleven-thirty," Hagan says.

"If you knew a quarter of what I have to do today, you wouldn't dare suggest I come all the way back here in what? A few hours?" she yells.

"Look, what do you think—?"

"Mrs. Thornton," I say interrupting him. "We'd love to give you your cake now, but I was just adding a few finishing touches to it in the kitchen. With you being so busy, I wouldn't dream of forcing you to come back," I say.

She looks a little mollified. "What do you suggest?"

"What if I deliver the cake to your house after the reaping? No extra charge." It's not something we normally do, but if she gets angry enough, Ruthe Thornton could make trouble for the bakery—slowing our shipments of flour and goods, restricting our coal usage, making sure we don't have electricity—so it's worth keeping her happy.

She pauses for a long time, considering. "That could work. As long as it's right after the reaping. My party's at four," she says.

"Then it's a deal," I say with a smile.

Ruthe starts to leave, then hesitates. "And good luck today, both of you."

We acknowledge her words, then Hagan and I return to filling the orders of the waiting customers: a box of oatmeal raisin cookies, two loaves of dill bread, and one of our apple tarts.

After the last customer leaves, my brother shakes his head. "How do you not lose it around people like her?"

"I learned from dealing with you," I say.

Laughing, Hagan balls up his apron and throws it at me. "I've got to get away from these customers, do you mind?"

"No, I've got it," I say, catching the apron. "Go clean or something."

I take the flour covered apron off and hang it on the hook by the kitchen door.

After that, the morning speeds by. Inside the bakery the temperature goes from hot to scorching. The ovens aren't making it any better, but none of this stops our customers from streaming in. People who have saved all year come into the bakery to buy special treats for reaping day. They do this in the hopes that they will feel like celebrating after the reaping. That theirs is not the family grieving this evening.

Then noon arrives and we lock the doors. The morning's gone well, we even sell out of cinnamon rolls and pear tarts, our most expensive pastries. I leave the bakery to go upstairs to where our family lives. We have one bathroom, so my bath has to be quick. I sit in the tepid water that passes for the hot tap and scrub off the caked on flour and icing from the bakery. Then it's time to get dressed.

This year's reaping clothes are new; a light blue shirt and dark blue trousers. Hagan has been wearing the same cream colored suit for the last two years and I've outgrown his old gray one. Rieska shredded his last reaping day clothes to celebrate. I found the remains of his outfit in the back of an old drawer when I was looking for something wearable.

I comb my wavy blond hair back, even though I know it will flop back into my eyes again in five minutes, and put on my only pair of dress shoes. When I'm done, it's one o' clock, time to go to the square. Since the square is right outside our bakery, it's not a long journey, but preparing to walk through our front door on reaping day is something of a production.

Since there are camera crews on rooftops all around the square, the people in town are filmed much more than those that have to come in from the Seam. Years ago, the mayor decided that orchestrating the entrance of the merchant families into the square would make the best on-screen impression. The shops on the west side go into the square and sign in first, then the south, and the east. The Justice Building, where the platform is set up, takes up the whole north side. We're on the east side, so we go with the sweets shop, the grocer, and the butcher.

At exactly 1:15 my father opens our front door and we file out in a straight line, my father, mother, Rieska, Hagan, and me. Rieska's here instead of with his fiancée because, according to official records, he still lives with us. The Capitol uses the reaping as an opportunity to track the population. Everyone has to come and register even if they aren't eligible for the reaping. They use the registration to confirm place of residency, age, and other facts. Being a no-show at the reaping gets you a one-way trip to the prison work gangs doing jobs the regular miners won't take even for extra money.

We march the short distance into the square and the cameramen on the roofs angle their tripods in our direction, zooming in to film our entrance. The Justice Building is decorated with festive flags, but the faces already in the square are grim. The atmosphere is more like a funeral than a celebration.

Hagan gives me a sarcastic salute before he heads off to wait with the other eighteen-year-olds up front. The sections are roped off by age with the oldest in the front and the youngest in the back. It's as if we're trying to protect the twelve-year-olds from the reality of the reaping by putting them farthest from the stage. It doesn't always work. Last year's male tribute was twelve.

I walk to the area in the middle for sixteen year old boys. My friends, the children of the other merchants, kids I have hung out with all my life, greet me and we joke around with a bravado we don't feel. We talk about what we'd do if our names are called, how we'd win without even trying. None of us believes this, but we say it every year. Since the merchant kids are all here first, we have what seems like a long wait ahead of us. We watch the people setting up the stage and running the sound checks.

The mayor gets the microphone adjusted for his height. They shift the drape of the Panem flag behind the podium, making sure it's perfectly centered. We ignore the racketeers who drift in, taking bets on who will be reaped. They base the odds on the kids' age, whether or not they live in town, even if the kid cries or not. It's sick. They ignore us as well. When a merchant kid is reaped, the winners get huge payouts.

The Seam kids have started wandering in. They act less brave. Groups of the girls are holding hands. The boys shift angrily, resentfully in place. They must be thinking about those extra slips.

Finally, finally, _finally_ our town clock strikes two and the mayor begins his long speech. It's the same speech every year. I could give it. It begins with the natural disasters and wars that ruined the earth. How human beings were nearly wiped out of existence. How the place we live now was once called North America and was divided by ideology and plagued with violence even as the sea swallowed up huge chunks of land. And finally, how Panem with its shining Capitol ringed by thirteen districts rose up to stem the tide of destruction and bring peace and prosperity to all its citizens.

The mayor goes on to tell of the Dark Days, seventy-four years ago when the districts betrayed the Capitol in a foolish and greedy uprising, spoiling our hard won peace. Twelve districts were defeated and the Capitol was forced to destroy the thirteenth. It was then that the Treaty of Treason was signed to guarantee our continued good will and, as a yearly reminder that the rebellion of the Dark Days can never be repeated, gave us the Hunger Games.

As punishment for the treason of the Dark Days, two district children between the ages of twelve and eighteen, one male and one female, are forced to compete in a fight to the death in any outdoor arena the Capitol can imagine. This means it can be a forest, a desert, or a frozen wasteland. One year it was a cityscape with abandoned buildings.

In all, twenty-four children, called tributes, are forced to compete. The competition happens over a number of weeks and is televised as mandatory viewing for district residents. The last tribute standing is named victor and wins riches and fame. The victor's district is showered in gifts, most importantly food, while the other districts continue to struggle near starvation. It's brutal and ruthless and there's nothing we can do to stop it. They make certain we understand our hopelessness.

Of course, District 12 rarely wins. As evidence of this, the mayor next reads our short list of victors. In seventy-four years of the Hunger Games, District 12 has won twice. Our last victor, Haymitch Abernathy, won his Games almost twenty-five years ago and is now a drunk. He's in his forties, sallow skinned, and cracked. As our sole living victor, he gets the dubious privilege of being mentor to those who are reaped.

Right now he's on stage staggering around, trying to hug our perpetually cheerful Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, who is swatting at him as if he were some kind of strange and disgusting insect. The cameras are trained on this spectacle and since this is live, the whole country is laughing at District 12.

The mayor tries to divert the camera's attention away from our district's drunken celebrity and back to the task at hand. He introduces Effie Trinket to the podium.

Effie Trinket, complete with her bizarre Capitol makeup, clothes, and pale pink wig, trots to the podium and begins to treat the reaping as if it were an especially fun game instead of a death sentence. The fashion in the Capitol is garish and impractical. It is taking all of Effie Trinket's considerable skill to remain upright on her towering high heels and covertly readjust her wig that has listed to the side. That hug from Haymitch must have sifted it.

She begins, as she does every year, with the slogan, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She drones on about how happy she is to be here and that the Capitol sends its warmest greetings to the citizens of District 12.

I have always hated the slogan for the Hunger Games. At eight, when the horror of the reaping and the Hunger Games started to sink in, I asked my father whether the Capitol hopes the odds are in your favor _for or against_ being reaped since being a tribute is supposedly an honor. He never answered.

Effie Trinket finishes her introduction and begins the drawing with a chipper, "Ladies first." She crosses over to the glass bowl filled with thousands of girls' names. She digs her long, painted nails deep into the bowl, swooshes around for long seconds and with the theatrical flair of a Capitol magician, pulls out a single slip of paper. She then strolls back to the podium.

The crowd is mute. I try not to look over at the girls in my year. I try not to see Katniss Everdeen with a group of other Seam girls. I try not to think about how unfair our world is.

I must have succeed on the first two points because I'm looking right at Effie Trinket's painted white face when she spreads out the slip of paper and says a name that makes my heart drop.

"Primrose Everdeen," she says in a clear voice.

Primrose Everdeen, Katniss Everdeen's little twelve-year-old sister. She's sweet and kind and oh, so tiny. Everyone likes her. My father buys her goat cheese. Years ago, he brought the first cheese she ever made even though it was inedible. There is no way she could survive the Hunger Games.

Under my shock there's barely controllable rage. I want to stop this somehow, break something, hit someone. How can I live in a world where they would send that little girl to her death? I quash the emotion. I'm not the only one, the crowd is restless as it always is when a twelve-year-old is chosen. The unfairness of it makes them grumble, but do nothing more. I see her, small and pale, walking past me down the aisle towards the stage. She has her blonde hair in two plaits like her sister wore when we were little.

Then I hear the sound I must have been listening for, because I'm completely unsurprised. The rustling to my right as Katniss Everdeen makes her way towards her little sister. I don't look at her. I can't take the anguish that must be written on her face. My hands curl into fists.

"Prim, Prim!" she calls out. The ragged tone is so different from her normally musical voice that I finally do look at her. She has made it to the front of the crowd and is shielding Prim with her own body. She looks flushed and determined, but her gasping voice undermines her calm demeanor. "I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute."

A murmur goes up in the crowd. All around me people are whispering her name, verifying with each other that she actually volunteered for the Games. This seems unthinkable.

In some districts, volunteering is common. They buy into the Capitol's idea that being chosen in the reaping is a great honor worth dying for, but District 12 never has volunteers. The people of this district struggle too hard to live to turn around and volunteer to die.

The whispers gets so loud, I miss what Effie and the mayor are saying, but Katniss is making her way toward the stage and Gale Hawthorne is taking a thrashing Prim back towards the area for waiting parents.

Effie Trinket looks very pleased with the events of this reaping, clapping her gloved hands in what can only be called glee.

"Bravo!" she says, "That's the spirit of the Games!" She takes Katniss by the hand and asks her name and if Prim is her sister, then asks the crowd to give her a "big round of applause."

No one applauds. Of course no one applauds this nightmare being forced on one of our own. No one can condone what happened. All around me, though, people are showing their respect for this girl, for the humanity she has given our district in the face of the Capitol's inhumanity. For having the courage to act. They touch the three middle fingers of their left hands to their lips and hold it out to her. It is a gesture exclusive to our district that is usually reserved for the great and the dead. It's a sign of respect, of love, and of goodbye.

Part of me can't help but feel pride for her action, admiration for her strength, but an even larger part of me is frozen. I can't take part in this show of appreciation going on around me. I'm immobilized, remembering the day this girl out-sang the birds in her red plaid dress, and another, later day, when she almost died of starvation on my doorstep. Thinking about how I've never spoken to her, told her how much she meant to me. How she made a sad little boy smile one blood filled day eleven years ago. How, since I was five years old, she's the only girl I've ever imagined marrying.

How this girl is going to be dead in less than a month, never knowing.

Something is breaking in my chest.

I haven't taken a breath since she volunteered. _Breathe_. I let out a shuddering gasp and force air into my lungs. It feels caught in my throat. I try to calm down, to breathe normally. Maybe I can go and see her before the train leaves to take her to the Capitol. I know that tributes are given time to say their goodbyes. But what would I say to this girl now, on what must be the worst day of her life that could make any difference to her? What can I possibly say that would help her face what is about to happen….

"Peeta Mellark," Effie trills in her Capitol accent.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

My name bounces around the silent square, the words echoing in my head until I barely recognize them. The boys to my left and right are making way for me and giving me _that_ look, the flitting look of pity before they studiously focus on their shoes, the ground or a shop in the distance. So, I didn't imagine it. I've been reaped.

The shock begins to wear off and the fear comes rushing forward like a fist to the face. I know that by now the cameras have found me in the crowd and your district expects you to accept your lot with dignity. I try to school my features, suck in a few more of those shaky breaths. Who would have guessed that breathing could be so hard? Surprisingly, my feet are able to move and I'm making my way to the stage.

It's all still surreal. Impossible even. What happened to the odds being in my favor? But, no, I can't wish this fate onto someone else, especially some Seam kid who'd had to bargain his life for food. I climb the few steps up to the makeshift stage and take my place to the left of Effie Trinket while she asks for volunteers.

My eyes find Hagan just in front of us in the eighteen-year-olds section. He's looking down, but from my vantage point I can see the emotions cross his face: the pain, the momentary indecision, and then guilt. I know he won't volunteer. I wouldn't want him to. It's not like Prim and Katniss. Less than two years separate us, he's no more likely to come home than me. I'll have to be sure to tell him all this before I go, so he knows he doesn't have to feel any guilt when I die.

When I die. The ease of this thought jolts me. The inevitability of it, the wheels that have been inexorably set in motion. There's no more questioning, no more worrying, it's just a matter of where and how.

As the mayor begins reading the tedious Treaty of Treason, I lean forward to look at Katniss Everdeen. She looks deep in thought, her eyes focused somewhere in the distance. I wonder if her thoughts are following a similar thread, planning her goodbyes to her family. She looks more irritated than accepting, though.

I notice her dress for the first time. It's a soft blue color, a little old fashioned maybe, but prettier, more richly made, than what most girls from the Seam are wearing. The color of her dress is almost the exact same as my shirt.

We match.

For one unbearable moment I think I'm going to start laughing, but then the mayor is motioning for me to shake Katniss' hand. I gently take her hand in my own, it's small and more delicate than I imagined. I look into her gray eyes, really for the first time, and give her hand what I hope is a reassuring squeeze. I hold onto her hand as we face the crowd while a recording of the anthem of Panem plays in the background.

Well, this means I won't have to say goodbye to Katniss Everdeen.

At least, not yet.

I wait in a lavish room in the Justice Building where a group of Peacekeepers deposited me after the reaping. I've been to the Justice Building a few times. Once, when my mother filed a complaint after someone broke into the bakery and a few times when my father needed to fill out paperwork. We've also provided desserts for a few dinners here. It's one of the only places in District 12 suitable for hosting Capitol guests. The opulent surroundings do nothing to calm me, they remind me of what must await me in the Capitol.

I wonder which tribute of these Games will be here in a few months on the Victory Tour the Capitol has each year. I pace the thickly piled carpet, trying to let go of the nervous energy that has infected me since leaving the stage. For the next hour, the time allotted to tributes to say goodbye, I want to appear calm, accepting. I have to do this both for myself and my family. I sit down on the couch to wait.

Moments later my two brothers open the door. Hagan pulls me into a fierce hug.

"Peeta, Oh Peeta, I'm so sorry. I wanted to volunteer. I did. I just…I couldn't believe…"

I pull back to look directly into his eyes. "Hagan, it's okay. I wouldn't have wanted you to. Our parents would still be losing a son. My name was called, so I'm the one that's going. It's that simple. Besides, I've always wanted to see the Capitol. You'd hate all those stuck-up people."

Rieska snorts and puts his arms around both of us. Suddenly, my hair feels wet. My brother, my eldest brother, who I used to copy in everything, who doesn't cry, is crying. I've never realized how much I love him until this moment. I'd spent too much of our childhood resenting him over how easily he won our mother's affection. Now I have to say goodbye.

"Peeta, I wish I'd been a better brother. I wish I hadn't teased you so much...I'm so sorry," he whispers.

"It's okay. I'll be sure to reveal something embarrassing about you on television, so we're even," I say.

That makes both of them laugh a little and the tears stop. I look at Hagan.

"There is something you can do for me, help Father with the bakery. We both know that you're horrible at baking, but you can haul in the flour and clean up. Oh, and could you deliver that cake to Ruthe Thornton? I told her I would, but…" I trail off.

"Yeah, Peeta, anything, of course," he says.

They both hug me again and we stay like that until the Peacekeepers ask them to leave.

My mother and father come next. My father hugs me for a long time, like he did when I was a little boy. My feet lift off the ground momentarily. He lets me go, but keeps firm hold of my hands. I look at the burn scars on the back of his hands. I have some as well, the evidence of our quiet mornings baking together.

I try to memorize everything I can about him. It's a memory I want with me when my time comes.

"You were always such a good boy, Peeta. I'm going to miss you so much. You're the son that I'd hoped…my boy…" he says. My family isn't good at talking about love. This is the closest my father has ever come.

All the words I want to say are stuck in my throat. I know that if I say them I will lose my hard won calm demeanor. I am able to say that I will miss him too, before I have to stop.

My mother stands uncertainly near the door, our relationship still broken, even now. I go to stand next to her. No matter what, she is my mother. I can't leave without saying goodbye. My father walks to the window to give us space. I give her a hug.

"I'm sorry if I was a disappointment to you," I say.

She looks sharply at me, "I never said that you were a disappointment."

I cannot count the number of times those exact words have come out of her mouth but through it all I've always loved my mother, wanted her love in return. I just never knew how to get it. I could have forgiven everything else.

"It doesn't matter. I want you to know I'll miss you and.…" I can't think of anything else to say. I want so badly to feel something more than regret at this parting. But this wound cannot be healed. At least, not by me.

My mother looks around the room, at the furniture, the pictures on the wall, anything but me.

"Maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner this year," she offers.

I look at her, stunned. No one, not my brothers, not my father has suggested that I might actually win. Of course, there's no chance that I will become victor, but her saying it is a kindness I couldn't have suspected.

"You think so?" I ask.

"Yes, she's a survivor, that one," she says.

It takes me a moment to realize she is talking about Katniss, that the odds of my survival don't even merit consideration, that I am already dead to her. At this point, I didn't think there was anything left she could say that would hurt me, but this is it. I swallow the pain where it sits in my stomach like broken glass.

"You might have a point," I manage to get out.

"Peeta…I was hard on you for just this reason…" she starts, then shakes her head. "You'd understand if you had children."

I will never have children now, but I feel certain I would never have given them black eyes for burning bread. I don't tell her that, instead I tell her what I hope will leave her with kinder memories of me.

"I know, you did what you had to do to make us strong. It's something I'm grateful for now," I say.

She looks relieved and gives me another hug.

"We'll be watching," she says as though this thought is comforting.

Before they leave, my father reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small bag of the shortbread cookies he made earlier this morning. They're my favorite. He must have gone back to the bakery to get them. A final, hopelessly impractical gift from my father. A treat can't comfort me now, but that doesn't stop me from clutching them to my chest as they close the door. I go to sit on the couch to wait out the remainder of my time, my arms and legs numb.

I'm not expecting any of my friends from school to visit me. I'm popular, but it's because my family owns the bakery and friendship with me might mean an occasional free cookie or pastry. They're the kind of relationships that could never withstand this sort of strain.

So, I'm surprised when my door opens again. Primrose Everdeen walks alone into my room and climbs into one of the overstuffed chairs. She looks at me with her wide blue eyes, her feet not even touching the ground. I'm struck by the fact that she looks more like she could be my little sister than Katniss Everdeen's. We sit in silence for a few moments.

"I just…I just wanted to thank you for the bread…from when I was little and my father died. Katniss never said, but I know it was you," she says in a rush. "It really saved us. We…I don't think we would have made it much longer without that bread."

That was five years ago, in early spring. I'm always aware of Katniss Everdeen, even when I try not to be, so after her father died in a mining accident and the already small girl lost ten, maybe fifteen pounds, I noticed.

At first, I thought it was from grief. I'd been at the ceremony honoring those who died in the mining accident that winter. It was one of those times my father provided the food at the Justice Building. I'd seen her while I set up the cakes. She'd looked so sad and dazed, her hands clinging to the medal of valor the mayor had given her. A medal in place of a father. I thought of my father then, what life would be like without him. I could understand that kind of grief destroying an appetite.

It wasn't until later I realized that it wasn't just grief that stole her appetite, her family didn't have any food. It hadn't occurred to me that without her father to provide for them, her family could starve. People in town don't starve. They may not be able to afford the expensive sweets and cakes displayed in the windows, but they have enough to survive. I would watch her during school wasting away and I couldn't think of a way to reach out to her. She stuck to herself and the other kids didn't seem to notice or care that she was slowly starving.

I began contemplating a trip to the Seam, a place I'd never gone, when she showed up on my doorstep, even thinner than the last time I saw her.

Not my doorstep exactly, but shifting, hungrily, desperately through our trash bins. Icy rain poured down, but my mother felt it was her duty to run the girl away. The trash bins were empty anyway. I'd taken them to the dump not an hour earlier. With my mother there, I knew I wouldn't have any chance to help Katniss, but I still followed her out into the rain. When I walked up behind them, my mother was hurling threat after threat at her for looking in our trash bins. How tired she was of brats from the Seam going through her trash. How she was going to call the Peacekeepers if Katniss didn't get out of there. I couldn't do anything but watch. I was used to my mother's berating tone, but I could tell the words stung.

Couldn't my mother see how weak and near collapsing Katniss was?

But Katniss did as my mother said, replacing the lid on top of the empty trash bin and with bruised dignity carefully started to move away from the house. After my mother returned to the bakery, I saw Katniss crumble against our old apple tree, disregarding the rain that came down in sheets.

I returned to the bakery with new determination. I headed over to the ovens where some of our raisin walnut bread was baking. Because of the spices and nuts, it's an expensive bread. My father only gets walnuts once a year in the fall from foragers who know all the black walnut trees in the district. Since it was April, those were the last loaves of the season.

And they were finished, their crusts a perfect golden brown, the aroma nutty and sweet. I took the wooden peel and moved the loaves in the front of the oven to the tall metal resting rack where they would cool. Then I pulled out the second row and put them with the first. On the third row, I tilted the peel back toward the fire and let the outer crusts of the bread blacken only enough to make them impossible to sell. I slammed the loaves of burned bread down onto the counter to get my mother's attention and her eyes were immediately on me.

"The last row of bread burned. The back of the oven must have been too hot, again," I said in a guilty voice. She'd warned me about burning bread before.

She grabbed the first thing her hand landed on, a rolling pin. I expected it and turned my head so that only the edge of the rolling pin made contact with my face.

I held my hands up to ward off another blow. "We can still use it."

She hesitated. "I knew you were foolish, I didn't know you were blind. It's burned! No one will buy burned bread!"

"We can use it to feed the pigs. That's using it," I said.

We raise pigs for their lard. It's used in most of our cake icings and for pie crusts. We also sell the meat to the butcher.

She forced the still blisteringly hot loaves into my bare hands. As I walked away I heard her yell from the doorway, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature. Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

I waded over to the pig pen in the still pouring rain. Katniss was hard to make out in the downpour, but I saw her soggy outline still stooped against the tree. I broke off the tiniest bits of the burned crust and threw them into the pen where our pig, Louie, sniffed the burned bread disinterestedly before trotting back to where he had been lying. I continued to feign throwing the bread to the pig and after a few minutes, my mother left the doorway to help a customer, but she kept the door open, casting me hard looks as she wrapped up his orders.

I could feel Katniss' eyes on me, too.

The customer asked my mother a question and in a flash I tossed the bread to where Katniss was sitting. I walked back into the bakery and collapsed against the other side of the door, listening as her steps sloshed away from our yard.

My bruised face throbbed in time with my racing heart, but it was worth it. More than worth it, I'd thought at the time, because she could stop being this daydream in my mind. Maybe now, we could become friends. We had a connection.

But it didn't turn out that way. The next day at school, I'd meant to find her, talk to her, but my eye had turned black and swollen shut. I didn't want to talk about my mother hitting me. I was too ashamed. I also didn't know how to explain why I did what I did. How do you tell a girl you've liked her since you were 5 years old? Any skill I have with words disappears around Katniss Everdeen. I couldn't even figure out how to say one word to her. So, when our eyes met for one long second in the courtyard after school, instead of talking to her, I only watched as she picked a dandelion.

I look over at Prim. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying. Her sister's going to the Hunger Games to fight to the death and she's here thanking me for a small kindness I did five years ago.

"It was nothing," I say.

"It was everything to us," she replies.

Prim struggles up from the plush chair and walks over to me. She wraps her thin arms around my waist. She doesn't say anything and neither do I. I awkwardly pat her back, wondering how this moment would be different if I was going into the Games with her instead of Katniss. After a long moment, she lets go and walks out the door.

After being chosen to go to my death for my district and saying goodbye to everyone I've ever loved, it is a little girl's hug that undoes all my resolve not to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

They usher us into the high speed Capitol train which takes off immediately. As we walk the length of the train, Effie explains how it averages 250 miles per hour and that we'll be in the Capitol, which is on the other side of the country, in less than a day.

She seems delighted to be leaving District 12. I don't blame her, no one would ever call 12 a resort district or claim that it is receptive to Capitol people. We don't try hard to hide our disgust. She shows us our quarters where we each have a bedroom, a dressing room, and our own private bath.

In District 12, my family is considered well off. We have more than enough to eat and a few of the bits and pieces that make life easier, but that is nothing compared to the extravagance of the train. Even those in my district who are considered rich are poor in comparison. It's the richest place I have ever seen, with chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and long stretches of ornately curtained windows.

After the tour, I head back to my bedroom to take a shower and change. The shower itself is a luxury. We have a detachable showerhead that can be hooked up to the faucet at home, but that is nothing like the shower here with its chrome fixtures and lighted showerhead built into the ceiling. I let perfectly hot water beat down on my head, rinsing away the events of the day. I almost feel relaxed. Almost.

When I'm clean, I look through the drawers that they have filled with fancy clothes that put my reaping day outfit to shame. I put on a pair of dark pants and a white shirt I find, wondering how they could have my size on such short notice. Do they have a stock of different sized clothes somewhere on the train? I'm not sure, but the clothes fit well.

I pull the little bag of cookies my out of the pocket of my blue pants. They've been somewhat squished. I don't know what to do with them. I can't eat them, this last gift from my father. I put the little baggy in one of the empty drawers. I'll figure it out later. It's then that Effie calls me to supper. She leads me to the dining table and goes to find Katniss.

While I wait, I look at the plates on the table. They're a fine china, etched with roses around the edges. The flatware is sterling silver. Everything on the train is plush and lavishly decorated, even more so than the Justice Building. It's a cold, alien beauty that doesn't feel completely real.

After a few moments they both come to the dining table. Katniss has taken a shower as well. Her intricately braided hair looks wet and she has on a green top and pants now. There's some kind of gold pin on the shirt, a circle with something in the center. I'm trying to figure out what it is when Effie Trinket asks me a question.

"Where's Haymitch," she chimes.

The man sat beside me on the car ride to the train, looking blearily out the window. Someone had poured enough coffee down his throat to bring him back to consciousness, but he didn't look happy to be going to the Capitol.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I tell her.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day." She sounds relieved he isn't here.

They serve us a five course dinner. There's so much food I barely have time to try one thing before they're bringing out the next course. After the exotic fruit and cheese I don't think I can eat anymore, but then they bring out the most beautiful chocolate cake I have ever seen.

Chocolate is expensive and even though we use in in a dessert or two, I've rarely had it before, only when it's stale beyond tasting. My father locks away the few squares we receive each month and measures it out with exact precision for each recipe.

The attendant cuts the cake to reveal ten perfectly even layers intersperse with icing. He serves each of us a slice, leaving the rest of the cake on the table. The fork melts through the moist layers. It is delicious and there is something more than chocolate in the icing. Is it lavender?

I swipe a little more of the icing off the top of the cake with my finger, which earns me a glare from Effie. I shrug, Katniss has eaten half her meal with her fingers. She's doing it to spite Effie because of a comment she made about the last two tribute's lack of table manners. I lick the icing from my finger. There's definitely lavender mixed into the chocolate icing. My father would love this cake. My father.

The thought pulls me up short. I wonder if my family will eat the cake I frosted with rosettes tonight, or will it go to waste? Left untouched on the countertop. No, my mother would never let food be wasted. It'll be eaten by the family or sold in the window—the last cake of Peeta Mellark.

That thought and the richness of the food makes me queasy. I look at Katniss, she looks a little sick as well. Sick, but determined to keep everything down. I'm quickly learning that Katniss Everdeen is a very determined young woman.

Effie herds us into another section of the train to watch the recap of all twelve reapings. It's not something I'm looking forward to watching. I don't want to see the children who will have to die with us in the arena or try to guess which one out of the twenty-four will become victor. Instead, I watch Katniss watching the reapings. She rolls her eyes as the overzealous tributes from Districts 1, 2 and 4 bound forward to volunteer. Unlike, Katniss, they weren't trying to save anyone. They've trained for this and delight in going to the Games, in District 12 we call them the Career Tributes.

Sadness crosses her face when a disabled boy limps his way to the stage in District 10 and a small 12-year-old girl, with luminous dark eyes is reaped from District 11.

I do watch our reaping. I see what I missed: Effie Trinket's confusion over how to handle volunteers, Haymitch drunkenly falling off the stage, and the selection of my own name from the glass bowl.

Part of me hoped that this was all some mistake and it wasn't my name after all. But it is. In all the excitement, Effie plucked out the first slip her hand landed on. It just so happened to be one of the five slips of paper with my name written in neat black ink. Without the distraction of Katniss volunteering, would it have still been me or would there be someone else sitting here, some other boy?

And that's it, I'm the last tribute, Effie Trinket clicks off the television. She isn't impressed with our district's performance.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior," Effie says.

I look at her to see if she's serious. She makes it sound like Haymitch has some kind of image problem. He doesn't, he has a drinking problem. I let out a laugh.

"He was drunk. He's drunk every year," I say. It's understandable. I might drink too if I had to lead people to their deaths. Anything to numb the pain.

"Every day," Katniss adds.

I grin at her and she gives me a half smile back. I guess I was wrong, sitting in the bakery this morning—a lifetime ago—today _is_ the day I talk to Katniss Everdeen. And the day she smiles at me.

Effie Trinket then proceeds to burst our little bubble.

"Yes, how odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and death!"

Just then Haymitch lurches in from one of the sleeping compartments. "I miss supper?" he slurs, stumbling toward us a few steps before vomiting at our feet and falling face forward into his own filth.

"So laugh away!" Effie says as she skirts around the growing pool of vomit.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

I haul Haymitch onto his richly embroidered bed, the mattress squeaking beneath his weight. It's a hard move, but my body is used to lifting heavy, awkward loads. He doesn't even register the motion. I've already showered the vomit off, letting the cold water spray down on him before squirting him a few times with shampoo and rinsing that away. I left his filthy clothes dripping in the tub, but the reek of vomit, sharp and fuming with raw alcohol seems to have soaked into the room and I keep gagging, regretting that last piece of chocolate cake at dinner.

Katniss offered to help me shower him, but after dragging him back to his compartment and dumping him into the bathtub, I could see how repulsed she was, so I let her leave. Plus, I don't want our first real conversation to be over our drunk mentor.

I also refuse the help of the Capitol attendants who hang around everywhere, superficially deferential, but doing a poor job of hiding how much they look down on us, the rustics from District 12. After his behavior at the reaping, my doing this alone might persevere some shred of Haymitch's dignity.

If he has any left.

I stare down at my 'lifeline to the world' and wonder if either I or Katniss will have any sponsors. Many tributes from District 12 haven't and I'm beginning to see why. Our mentor is in shambles. No one, especially not the rich Capitol people who become sponsors, wants to deal with someone who might vomit on their shoes.

Is that what happened with the tributes from last year? The boy died the first day of the Games, a victim of one of the Careers, but the girl died a week later after drinking contaminated water. What would it have taken to get her some medicine? Did Haymitch even try? Maybe he did, but would the sponsors have been willing to listen?

At that moment, Haymitch decides to roll over, scratch himself, and start snoring. Groaning, I cover him up as best I can and head back to my room for another shower. A long one.

I spend the rest of the night looking out the window at the changing landscape. I watch as the misty blue mountains of my home district finally give way to vibrant green farmland, lit with strange lamps even at night and then to straw colored barren plains as the sun rises. Sometime in the next few hours the landscape will become mountainous again. The Capitol is located in a place that was once called the Rockies long before our country was called Panem. Unlike the rolling peaks of District 12, the mountains that surround the Capitol are jagged edged giants dusted with snow. They make the Capitol impenetrable to attack.

Or at least that's what our school books say.

By the time Effie comes to wake me for breakfast I'm already up and dressed.

Sitting in the same dining car with Effie Trinket and Haymitch Abernathy ranks about the same as walking in on your parents having sex in terms of discomfort and embarrassment. It's shudder worthy. Effie starts off trying to be civil to which Haymitch responds with sexual innuendoes. After about ten minutes of this, Effie Trinket, the queen of all things etiquette and good manners, storms away from the table muttering the most unmannerly curses, leaving me with Haymitch who laughs and drinks tomato juice thinned with a liberal dose of a clear liquor.

By the time Katniss arrives, I know I am blushing. I look down at the roll I've been trying to eat for the last ten minutes. Haymitch waves her over to our table and a servant comes by, placing a huge platter of food in front of her. The gleam in her eyes is almost predatory as she surveys the decadence of her plate. For some reason I like watching her eat, seeing her pleasure in the food. It's the same in the bakery when someone praises one of my cakes in the window. She glances at the pitcher of creamy brown liquid next to the coffee.

"They call it hot chocolate. It's good." I tell her. I'd never heard of the creamy concoction before. It's very rich. I dip bits of roll into the warm drink, making it last longer. I can tell Katniss is hooked by the way she devours it after the first sip.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," Katniss says after a putting a dent in the food on her plate.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," Haymitch says and then starts laughing, throwing his head back, the hand not holding the drink slapping the wood of the table.

Katniss and I exchange a look. There's only mild exasperation in her eyes. What I feel is stronger. We could have left him to drown in his own slimy vomit last night, but he finds our impending deaths hilarious. I think again about all the tributes in the years past, about how all they hadwas him. How, if it weren't for Katniss, it would be little Prim sitting here.

"That's very funny," I tell Haymitch. I knock the drink from his hand. "Only not to us." The glass flies across the compartment, its red liquid spilling out on the hard wood floor like blood.

Haymitch takes a moment to consider the loss of his drink before punching me in the jaw. The blow knocks me off the chair. I jump back to my feet, ready for a fight, only to see that Katniss had driven her knife into the table between Haymitch's hand and the bottle of alcohol. I tense to push her out of the way of his blow. Haymitch just stares at us groggily.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" Haymitch asks.

I scoop up a piece of ice from under the fruit tray to put on my spreading bruise.

"No, let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena," Haymitch says.

"That's against the rules," I say.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," Haymitch says.

He then turns to Katniss and asks about her knife throwing skills. Almost everyone in the district knows about her hunting skill and she's earned her reputation. She makes a throw into the joint between two wall panels without look. Easy.

Haymitch tells us both to stand up. He circles around us, looking both of us over. He then declares us passably attractive and seems to nod to himself as though coming to a decision. He straights his shoulders.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Haymitch. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

It isn't much of a promise, but it's all we have. There's nothing we can do but agree. At least he respects us enough to try.

"Fine," I say.

Katniss starts to ask him a question about the arena, but he waves her off.

"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," he says.

With that, Haymitch collects his alcohol, slipping the bottles into the long pockets of his robe as he disappears back into his room, the bottles happily clinking together as he walks.

So much for getting any lifesaving advice today.

A few seconds after he leaves, the train passes into a tunnel under what must be one of the mountains that surround the Capitol, pitching the compartment into darkness. I stand next to Katniss as the automatic lights that illuminate the train at night switch on. I not sure if it is about Haymitch or the darkened tunnel, but Katniss wraps both her arms around herself, biting her lip, clearly anxious. When she's not in front of the cameras, everything she feels shows in her face, in the clear color of her gray eyes. The darkness stretches on.

Light bursts back into the compartment, starling us both. We're in the Capitol. As if of one mind, we run to the window to see it, the distant power that controls all our lives. The scenes speed by, but it is enough to see that television hasn't exaggerated the splendor of the Capitol. Everything—the towering multi-colored buildings, the bizarrely dressed people, the glittering cars—is built on a scale that intimidates, that demands attention. But despite its candy coated exterior, the Capitol is cold, it's cheerfulness artificial. Beneath the bright colors is harden steel. It's as if the Capitol is saying look at our power, our permanence. Nothing you do could ever shatter us.

The people have begun to notice that this is a tribute train. They're pointing at us and waving wildly. I take the initiative to wave back and smile. What can it hurt? I know now we can't count on Haymitch to make a positive impression on the people of the Capitol. I've yet to meet a person that doesn't hate him.

Now that our life span has dwindled down to a matter of weeks, having a sponsor could buy us some extra time. If we want sponsors, it's something we're going to have to do for ourselves.

As the train pulls into the station, I realize that Katniss is scowling at me. I can see the disgust in her eyes for the Capitol, its bloodthirsty citizens. For my catering to them.

I shrug. "Who knows?" I tell her. "One of them may be rich."

Her scowl only deepens and she turns away from me.

It looks like making a good impression is something I'm going to have to do myself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

When Haymitch told us we wouldn't like what the stylists do to us, I didn't know he meant torture. A bright blue light above my head shines down as what feels like a thousand needles pierce the skin of my cheeks, chin, and neck. It lasts only one minute, but it is the most intense pain I've ever felt.

"Now, see, that wasn't so bad," says Vitus, a young man with silver hair so slick and uniform it looks like molded plastic. He removes the white goggles from my eyes and looks down at my expression, which must be funny because he laughs. "What am I saying? It's the pain of a thousand deaths, but the results are worth it."

He unbuckles the straps restraining me to the thin bed and walks me down to the Remake Center main hall where the tributes are prepped before being presented to President Snow during the opening ceremonies.

"Kills all the follicles from your face from the nose down," says Vitus. "Now you'll never have to shave again. Plus, you'll always have satiny smooth skin. Absolutely no bumps. Got it done myself six months ago."

"What do you mean never shave again?" I ask.

"The electrolite permanently removes hair," says Vitus. "Isn't it wonderful? Now they'll always be able to see your face in the arena."

I think about how Haymitch doesn't have any facial hair, despite never doing anything to groom himself. They must do this to all the male tributes. My facial hair is always very light, so I knew I wasn't going to be growing a beard anytime soon, but I was still going to try this year. But I guess it doesn't matter, now.

"You didn't want facial hair, did you?" asks Vitus. "It isn't a District Twelve custom is it? I never know what's going on in the provinces."

I shake my head and we exit the main hall and enter a set of rooms marked 12b. Vitus opens one of the doors and sits me down on a bench where he applies a cooling liquid to my face.

"Now that we've got that out of the way, let's get on to the fun part," says Vitus.

After the hair removal, the other member of my prep team, a woman named Lucia, scrubs me down before buffing all my nails. Then Vitus paints a foul-smelling concoction in my hair. They bustle out and I wait in this cold, surgical room for them to rinse it out. I wrap the thin robe they've given me more tightly around my shoulders and open all the drawers in the small row of cabinets that line one of the walls. I don't know what I expect to find, but they're empty. I pace around a little before I give into the boredom and start counting the white tiles on the floor. I'm counting them for the third time when my prep team comes to usher me back into the salon.

"You're going to love the color. The highlights will all be very natural and golden. Like you've been kissed by the sun," Vitus says.

"I wish Portia would let me do a little etching on his face, it would make the blue of his eyes pop. Are you certain she said I couldn't," say Lucia with a pout.

Lucia's skill with etching is evident on her own face which is engraved with golden roses very similar to what decorates the plates on the train. She also seems to have green leaves growing from her scalp.

"Yes. You heard what Portia said. We're going for _au naturale_, as bizarre as that might be," Vitus answers.

"But, it would be—"

"No, Lucia." He snaps back, "I'm not getting demoted again because you can't follow orders. District Twelve is the end of the line."

It's usually that way, stylists and prep teams either start out or are moved down to District 12. No one chooses to stay. I wonder what they did to their last tribute.

Vitus rinses the dye from my hair, adds some cold goop, and then rinses that out as well. They wrap a towel around my head, and shepherd me back into the 12b rooms. They sit me down in front of a mirror where they spend about twenty minutes just turning my head this way and that. Then they decide to dry and cut my hair. I let out a relieved sigh when I see the strands falling to the ground are still blond, well, maybe some bits are a shade or two lighter.

"Oh, Vitus, if I wasn't so mad at you, I'd tell you it's wonderful," says Lucia as Vitus puts the finishing touches on my haircut.

"Wonderful is the only way I know how to be," says Vitus smoothing his silver hair.

Vitus turns me around in the chair so I can see myself. It's still wavy and flops onto my forehead, but the waves do appear tamer and it has a shine it didn't before.

"You know, even without the etchings, you're kinda nice-looking," Lucia says after a moment.

"You are nice looking," says Vitus with authority. "You're going to make such a splash at the opening ceremonies. Let's get you to Portia," Vitus says.

They lead me into a sitting room to meet my stylist. The room is furnished with a pair of white wing back chairs and a small table. The room doesn't have any windows, but two of its walls are covered in floor length paintings. One depicts a mountain at sunset and the other a forest stream. I go to inspect the one with the mountain. It has a strange holographic quality that makes the mountains appear three dimensional, more like a window. The wind seems to blow the clouds in the background.

"It's mesmerizing, it's it? I met the artist who refined this technique when I was in design school."

I turn around to find a young women standing near the door. Actually young, not one of the surgically enhanced, perpetually young stereotypes of the Capitol. But she is definitely Capitol. Her hair is a waterfall of dark, almost black, blue that fades to seafoam green at the ends. Her clothing has the same dizzying asymmetry as the outfits Effie Trinket wears, but somehow look less garnish, more put together. Her temples and hands are tattooed with blue swirls. But despite all the Capitol refinements, she is very pretty.

"You must be Portia," I say.

"And you must be Peeta," she answers. "Well, let me take a look at you."

I go to take off my robe, but she stops me, "That's not necessary."

She walks around me in silence. Then she takes a moment to run her fingertip down my cheek, a frown on her lips.

"How did you get this bruise," she asks.

"My mentor and I got off to a rough start," I answer lightly.

"Well, I've been instructed to leave it showing. It's supposed to make you look like a fighter," she says. "Let's sit down and have a bite to eat, hmmm?"

She sits in the first chair. I walk around to take the one next to it. She presses a button on the side of the table and food rises up from a tray beneath it. Salmon with asparagus and creamy mashed potatoes. Fresh strawberries and whipped cream sit on a separate serving dish for dessert. I pick my fork up and dig in. The food, as usual, is delicious.

Does it ever get routine for the people of the Capitol? Do they see having so much, so easily, as normal? Are they like I was when I was eleven, unaware that other people live differently? Perhaps I have no reason to judge these people. I've never gone to bed hungry. My family has been more fortunate than most in our district when it comes to the basics. Maybe I have more in common with them than I know.

We've been eating for a few minutes in silence, when I notice she's looking at me.

"Are you a fighter, Peeta?" she asks.

"I've been in my share of fights," I say.

"But, nothing like what you're going to face in the next few weeks?" says Portia.

"Who has, besides the victors?" I say.

"I suppose you're right," she says. "And no one would ever choose to go through that twice, but as your stylist, it's my job to help you look the part, so the sponsors see you as the victor even now."

I shake my head. "You must be new. District Twelve doesn't have victors."

"I am new. This is my first time at the Games. My partner, Cinna, who is the stylist for Katniss, and I chose District Twelve because we believe we can help change that."

I think I understand now. Styling for the tribute who becomes victor can make a career. The stylist's creations often become a Capitol sensation. Creating a winning look for tributes from a backwater like District 12 has to be the challenge of a lifetime. I look down at my half eaten plate, realizing that no matter how nice they seem, the people of the Capitol want to use us for their own ambitions. I let the fork drop to my tray.

"I think I'm done with this," I say. "Is there anything else I need to know before the opening ceremonies?"

"Peeta," she says, reaching out her hand to cover mine. "You misunderstand me."

She leans closer and I notice for the first time that her eyes are brown. A nice, normal brown.

"I know this situation is…impossible…for you. I'm here to help, that's all. I have only one skill and that's making people look good, and I'm good at it. If that can, in any way, save your life, I'll be happy. Okay?"

She gives my hand a small squeeze. I can't hold on to my anger in the face of her sincerity. And she is sincere. Her compassion shines through her Capitol style and accent. In her own way, she, and even the prep team, are trying to help me.

I give her a smile. "Okay," I say gently, "So, exactly how good will I be looking in the opening ceremonies?"

"The crowd won't be able to take their eyes off you."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

_They won't be able to take their eyes off you_. So, even a Capitol crowd isn't jaded enough to find teens burning to death on a chariot boring. I'm dressed in a stretchy black outfit with high leather boots. Topping it off is a yellow, red and orange flame colored cape that my stylist plans to set on fire along with its matching headdress.

At the opening ceremonies, each set of tributes is supposed to dress in a costume that represents their district. District 7 has lumber, so its tributes are always dressed as trees. District 10 is livestock, so they're cows or cowboys. The main industry of District 12 is coal, which, in a normal year would mean a skimpy coal miner's costume. There have been particularly bad costumes, like the year the tributes were naked and covered in coal dust, or the year they wore headlamps that covered their faces, but none of the costumes have ever been lethal. She tells me that it's not real flame, that it's something she and her partner, Cinna cooked up, but I'm doubtful. I'm not sure I trust someone who thinks a fantastic outfit will save me in the arena.

Working in the bakery, I've had my share of painful burns from the ovens. One summer, I burned the whole length of my arm so badly my father took me to a real doctor. In District 12, we make do with the apothecary because doctors are expensive, but my father was afraid I'd lose use of that arm. I didn't lose any function in that arm, but I still have the scars and I'm not in a hurry to get anymore. Portia and the prep team are excited, though, and absolutely certain we'll be the envy of every other district.

We meet up with Katniss and her stylist Cinna on the way to the bottom level of the Remake Center. Unlike Portia, Cinna doesn't look like he's from the Capitol. He looks almost normal, with his short brown hair and dark clothing. Katniss looks up when I arrive. Despite her anger at our last meeting, she seems glad to see me and gives me a relieved smile. She's dressed in the same costume as me, but I'm certain she looks much better in it. A warm feeling rises in my chest at the sight of her. I realize I've missed her as well, missed the few smiles she's already given me.

We assemble on the chariot behind our four black horses. They must be the same ones used each year because they seem at ease in the bustle that surrounds them. Our stylists put the finishing touches on our costumes and arrange our positions. While Portia and Cinna are talking with each other, Katniss turns to me and whispers, "What do you think about the fire?"

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," I reply through gritted teeth.

"Deal," she says. She gives a little shiver, "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

I hadn't seen Haymitch since we left the train where he promised he would help us. Right now, helping us not to burn to death would be appreciated.

"Where is Haymitch anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I ask.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," says Katniss.

My eyes find hers and suddenly we're both laughing, releasing some of the tension. I wasn't expecting Katniss' sense of humor. She's different than I thought she would be. She always seemed so serious. I didn't expect her to be someone I could laugh with. The warmth I felt earlier has spread through my body. I realize I'm warm and excited and happy to be here with her, even if that means being set on fire. Then frustration starts to creep in. Why did I wait so long to get to know her? Now, when it's too late for both of us, I see that we could have really been friends.

The music for the opening ceremonies blasts throughout the Capitol, effectively cutting off our laughter. The massive doors that enclose the stables open out onto an ecstatic crowd. We can hear them, but our sight is limited by the eleven other chariots in line in front of us. Katniss and I watch the first few districts ride out and the crowd roars. Districts 1 and 2 are, as usual, favorites. Because of the way they practice, they win the Hunger Games more often than any other districts. Having a history of winning makes them more likely to get sponsors.

After the first few districts roll out, everything goes by quickly and it's our turn. Cinna shows up as District 11 is rolling out to light our capes and headdresses on fire. He's carrying a very real looking flaming torch.

They can't really burn us, can they? What would the Capitol do if the District 12 tributes broil before the Games? Will they carry on with the twenty-two tributes they have or will they hold another reaping in District 12?

"Here we go then," Cinna says casually as he uses his torch to set Katniss aflame. I hear her gasp and I prepare to rip her cape off when I see she isn't hurt.

She's always been pretty to me, but now she is magnificent. The living flames wreathing her face make her breathtaking. I am so absorbed in the sight of her, I don't notice that Cinna has lit me on fire as well. It doesn't burn, but feels like someone is running their fingers down your back.

After lighting our headdresses as well, Cinna lets out a sigh of relief, "It works."

I look at him in the light of our flickering flames and remind myself to ask Portia about him when we get back from the opening ceremonies. He adjusts our stance again and lifts Katniss' chin up. This action causes me to look over at her and, once again, I am mesmerized by her beauty.

"Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!" Cinna says.

Cinna jumps off the chariot, and it starts to move forward.

"What's he saying?" Katniss asks.

I drag my eyes away from this new Katniss to focus on Cinna shouting and gesturing below us.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say.

I take her right hand in my left and we look back to Cinna for confirmation. The prep team must have done something to her hands because her skin is satiny soft against mine. He nods and gives us a thumbs up. I can feel the frantic thrum of her pulse through my hand. The speed is contagious and my heart speeds up to match hers as our chariot rushes forward into the city.

Even though we could hear them from the inside of the Remake Building, I wasn't prepared for the magnitude of the crowd waiting for us, the sea of people screaming, clapping, and chanting out the names of their favorites.

All this changes when we first roll out onto the wide paved street. The crowd falls silent, our flaming appearance startling them into silence. But it only lasts for a second before all I can hear are shouts of "District Twelve."

The cameras must be fixed on us because the screens are full of District 12. I knew how spectacular Katniss looks, but the fire has even worked its effect on me. Together we are twin flaming stars. Tails of fire flow behind our chariot into the night. Katniss seems frozen at the sight. I give her hand a little shake. After a second, this seems to break the spell. She begins to do as Cinna asked, smiling and even blowing kisses to the audience. She's so different from the scowling girl who resented my waving to the crowd from the train. _Hypocrite._

I look over at her again. She's caught a blood red rose from an admirer in the crowd and blows a kiss in his direction. _An absolutely beautiful hypocrite. _ I laugh a little to myself before I continue waving.

The crowd is loving us. Katniss and I fall into a pattern. First we wave to our separate sides of the crowd, then we wave together to each side. The chant changes from "District Twelve" to our first names. They must have taken the time to look them up in the program. It's so strange to hear my name being called from all sides in the affected Capitol accent. They pronounce it _Pay-ta_. The _s _sound on the end of Katniss' name gets drawn out to ridiculous lengths.

It's all very exciting, the applause, the people chanting. No other district is receiving the attention we're getting. Not even close. I think about what Portia said about our image saving our lives. It'd never occurred to me that I could be the one to survive the Hunger Games, but if it is all about getting people to like you, isn't that what I've been doing all my life? Wasn't I one of the most popular kids at school?

Then I remember the scenes of the Capitol crowd they show during the Games, how they are just as enthusiastic when they watch the tributes die. We aren't real to these people in the crowd, no matter how much they scream our names. Popularity can't counteract the fact that the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4, are Career Tributes, trained almost from birth to win the Hunger Games.

I look over that the girl holding my hand so tightly I've lost feeling. The girl fate has linked me to for almost as long as I can remember. And I think about what that means. I force myself not to dwell on it.

As we enter the City Circle, Katniss tries to loosen her grip on my hand. I reflexively tighten mine. I don't want her to let go. I want to feel her slender hand wrapped in mine a little longer.

"No, don't let go of me," I say. I rack my brain to think of a reason, "Please. I might fall out of this thing."

She looks up at me, somewhat doubtful, but says, "Okay."

We join up with the other chariots on what makes up the loop of City Circle. This is where the elite of the Capitol live, the government officials and business owners, the most influential of the Capitol's citizens. I see them now, waving from the windows of their large houses. At the center of City Circle is President Snow's expansive mansion. As we come to the front of his home, all the chariots come to a halt and the music ends with resounding fanfare. President Snow greets us from his balcony high above the street level, giving us his annual welcome address.

The president is a thin, white haired man. He would seem like a kindly grandfather figure if it weren't for the coldness in his eyes. He appears old, but not nearly as old as he must actually be. Snow has been the President of Panem for at least seventy-four years. I say at least because our history books are vague on his ascent to the presidency. They don't give dates. The way the books are written, President Snow is nearly ageless and eternal, forever guarding Panem from threats within and from the desolate wilderness beyond our borders.

But I know it has been at least seventy-four years because buried in a dusty album hidden in the bakery's attic is a grainy picture my great-grandfather took during the first reaping. It shows the few children who survived the Dark Days of the districts' rebellion gathered around a large screen. Standing behind the presidential podium on that screen is a much younger, but still recognizable President Snow.

In District 12, people rarely live past sixty, maybe seventy if you live in town. In the Capitol things are different, they have miraculous medicines and treatments that can extend life and make people look half their ages. There is no way to know how old the president is, even the knowledge I have is probably forbidden.

The president finishes his speech and then wishes us a "Happy Hunger Games." The crowd breaks out in thunderous applause while the chariots make one last lap around the City Circle. The national anthem plays as the chariots break off to enter the Training Center.

Our chariot comes to a stop in front of our prep teams who are full of praise for our performance. The stylists show up to remove our flaming garments and Portia puts out the flames using a canister like the fire extinguisher we have at the bakery back home.

Katniss slips her hand out of mine and takes a step away from me. This time I have no choice but to let her. The blood rushes painfully back to my hand and we both massage our palms. I can't look at her. The intimacy we shared moments before is fading and I feel unexpectedly shy. More than anything I want her hand back in mine. I look over as the other tributes dismount their chariots. Most of them are stealing glances at us. They don't look pleased with our success.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me," I say. "I was getting a little shaky there." It's a somewhat true excuse. Standing and waving for almost half an hour is exhausting.

"It didn't show," says Katniss. "I'm sure no one noticed."

A thought comes to my mind. It is a bold thought and for a moment I'm not sure I should say it. I don't know how she'll react, but knowing I'm going to be dead in a week makes me bold.

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you," I say with a smile. "You should wear flames more often. They suit you."

I risk looking at her to see her reaction. She looks pleased and then she does something else I didn't expect. She goes up on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. Right over the bruise.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The Training Center is a gleaming building in the heart of the Capitol. Like all the buildings here, it is simultaneously candy coated and unnerving. This is where we will stay until the actual Games begin.

Each district is given an entire floor for themselves, their mentors, and the rest of their entourage. As the Twelfth and final District we get the top floor. At the center of the building is a large see through crystal elevator. The ride to the top floor drops my stomach to my knees, making me dizzy, especially after the long chariot ride.

Effie Trinket, our escort, is there to guide us for the next few days until we enter the arena. She has warmed up to us since our ride on the train. It might have something to do with finally having a success at the opening ceremonies. District 12 hasn't made an impression during the ceremonies in years. The whole way up the elevator to our room she is effusive with her praises for our stylists, our prep teams, and for our behavior. She has become our staunchest supporter, apparently working room after room in an effort to win us sponsors.

"Haymitch hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Katniss sacrificed herself for her sister. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district," she says.

I ignore that crack about the barbarism of District 12. Our district may not have the advances of the Capitol, but nothing can be more barbaric than a place that demands the deaths of children on live television. But I think of us possibly having strategies. Does Haymitch really have any ideas for us? He hasn't bothered to tell us about them either.

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being from the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" Effie says triumphantly.

She is so proud and smiling so brightly, neither of us have the heart to tell her she is wrong. If there is one subject both Katniss and I know well, it's coal. Practically every class at school devotes huge chunks of time to that topic. Coal doesn't turn into pearls, it just doesn't. Some people say coal turns into diamonds, but it doesn't do that either.

As Cinna and Portia know, the only thing coal does well is burn. But marketing us as the tributes who burn really well wouldn't have been the best comeback.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Haymitch can do that," Effie says grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

I imagine Effie Trinket with her pink hair and periwinkle skirt suit holding a gun to Haymitch's head and dragging him to sponsorship meetings. The image is surprisingly plausible.

After showering in the highly automated bathroom, which, as I learned, will fill with rose scented foam if you push buttons randomly, I decide to explore our floor. My quarters needs to air out anyway.

I manage to program a decent outfit into the closet without incident. Windows zoom into each store in the city, showing you what they offer, advertising their deals and sales. After selecting the clothes, hangers go out and return with the items in minutes. When all the clothes have been delivered, I dress and head out.

Our floor of the Training Center is huge. It has two dining rooms, one formal and the other more casual, several sitting areas, multiple televisions, and a state of the art kitchen full of polished stainless steel appliances. The kitchen alone is more than twice the size of our bakery at home. I'm not sure I'm supposed to be in the kitchen, it's dark and empty, but the gadgets lure me in. I flip on the light. They have ovens here that can cook food to perfection in an instant. All you do is mix the ingredients, place them in the oven, and the food is cooked.

Pyramids of exotic fruits hang in five tier ripening baskets, keeping them at just the right sweetness without letting them spoil. The refrigerators, seemly empty, are automated like the closets, delivering any food you want, any ingredient you need in less than a minute.

I'm walking around trying to figure out what the other devices do, when servants dressed in white tunics slip in and start making dinner. No one tells me to leave so I find a quiet corner to sit and watch. The prep and flurry of activity reminds me of the bakery at home, but the servants here are so quiet, unlike my boisterous brothers. I wonder how my family is doing, what they thought of the opening ceremonies, if seeing our triumph changed their opinion of my chances. Maybe my mother felt an emotion other than disappointment.

One young man, he's maybe five or six years older than me, creates beautiful flowers, pulling the petals out of heated sugar. When one of the fragile roses breaks unexpectedly, he leans down near me to pick up the shattered pieces.

"Let me." I say bending down to help him. He backs away from me, shaking his head. I see his lips moving, but no sound is coming out of his mouth.

"Peeta, what are you doing in here?" Effie says walking into the kitchen. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"I was …." I look around for the servant who'd been making the flowers. He has disappeared.

"You shouldn't even be in here with the…the _servants_," she says the word like it tastes bad. She turns around and walks out the door, clearly expecting me to follow. "Cinna is looking for you."

I haven't said much to Cinna since he set me on fire. I never had a chance to ask Portia about him. I follow Effie through the kitchen and dining room.

Cinna's looking out over a balcony when we find him. He looks wearier than he did during the opening ceremonies, sad and distant.

"Well, Cinna, I finally found him," Effie says, "He was in the kitchen of all places. We can chalk that up to his unfortunate upbringing."

Oh, yes, the barbarism of District 12.

"Well, I'll just leave you two boys alone. I have to go check on Katniss. See you in…." She slides a pocket watch out. "…twenty minutes for dinner." After giving a little wave, she struts off to do who knows what.

"I'm not sure we've officially met. I'm Cinna," he says.

"Peeta," I respond. I'm struck again about how normal Cinna is. Even his accent is less ridiculous.

"You know, the view from the rooftop is quite spectacular. Why don't we go up there and talk," Cinna says.

We climb a short flight of stairs and exit into a small dome-shaped building to get to the roof. As soon as we step out on the rooftop, I understand why Cinna has brought me here. The wind on the roof is loud. Too loud for anyone to overhear a conversation. I wonder what he wants to talk about that he doesn't want heard.

Although not his primary motivation, Cinna is right about the view. It is spectacular. All of the Capitol can be seen from the top of the Training Center. There are twinkling lights as far as the eye can see. I think again of the message of dominance the Capitol is sending. Electricity is sporadic in the districts, but I know that is never the case here. If the electricity went out, the whole city would come to a grinding halt.

"There's a garden on the other side as well. You and Katniss might like to see it later," says Cinna.

I nod absently, looking out over the city. It's impressive, but the artificial lights limit your view of the stars. "Are tributes usually allowed up here?" I say.

"Yes, as far as I know," he says.

I walk over to the railing and look down. Below, cars speed along the paved streets. Twelve floors is a long way to fall, but for some, it might be better than going into the Games.

"Shouldn't they be worried some of the tributes might jump over the side?"

"They can't," Cinna says, "Watch." He holds his hand out over the railing. When he reaches down there is a sharp zap and he jerks his hand back. "There's a force field surrounding the building that would throw you back onto the roof."

I laugh. "They even take that choice away."

"Peeta," Cinna says. "I brought you up here to ask your opinion on a strategy Portia and I have come up with."

I shrug. "I don't know much about fashion."

"It's not about fashion. It's about the way we present you and Katniss. Haymitch already approves of it, but Portia felt it was important to get your input before going ahead. There is some risk to this strategy, but we feel it's unique enough to get sponsors to pay attention."

I frown. Could anything be more risky than going into an arena to fight to the death? "How do you want to present us?"

"As a team. We'd dress you in complementary clothing. We started it with the opening ceremonies when you held hands. It sets you apart from the other districts. It also influences how the other tributes see you."

Even though both tributes from each district wore the same costumes at the opening ceremonies, the stylists didn't bother to present their tributes as teams. In fact, in each chariot the tributes were stationed stiffly apart. They looked as though they were directed to ignore the other's existence.

I'm thrilled to know that we might have any sort of strategy, even if it boils down to matching outfits. But I'm still not seeing the risk.

"Why would this be risky?" I ask.

Cinna looks at me intently. "The Capitol expects tributes to behave in a certain way. It can be dangerous to deviate from expectation, but it can also attract the kind of attention that generates sponsors." he says.

Everyone knows that the best way to get sponsors is to stand out in some way. Look different, act outrageous, whatever it takes. No one wants to get lost in the crowd. The way you are presented could make all the difference in the arena.

"What does Katniss think?" I say.

Cinna raises his eyebrow, "In her case, Haymitch thought it was best left a surprise."

Interesting. Katniss has always seemed fiercely independent. And Haymitch figured this out after knowing her for about a day, less if you don't count the time he was passed out.

"Then why ask me?" I say.

"Portia insisted," he smiled. "She's the nice one."

We head back up to the dining room where Portia is waiting for us on the same balcony Cinna last inhabited. She smiles when she sees us.

"How did everything go? Did you tell him about the strategy?" asks Portia.

"I did. I'm just not sure why you couldn't." says Cinna smiling at her.

"It was your plan, you should explain it," says Portia. She turns to me.

"So, what do you think?" she asks.

"It's fine with me," I say. "I'd feel better if Katniss was in on it."

"She'll figure it out soon enough," says Cinna. "She seems the type that needs easing into new ideas."

Maybe they're right. I stare back out over the twinkling skyline of the Capitol.

"How do you find the Capitol?" Cinna asks.

I look over at them, these two citizens of the Capitol, who have never known the fear of a reaping. "It's larger than I thought it would be," I say.

"Yes, it is very large, beautiful even," Cinna says, his face unreadable. "I learned fashion design over there." He points out a building in the distance. "That's where I went to fashion school."

"I went there too. It's the best design school in the Capitol," says Portia. "Years later, of course."

Cinna laughs. "Of course," he echoed, but the smile leaves his eyes. "After so many years of being a stylist, you learn all about the tricks of beauty, that the outside doesn't always match the inside. Sometimes, all you end up seeing is the technique of the designer."

Right then, Katniss comes into the dining room and Effie directs us all to our seats. Haymitch shows up a few minutes later. He's as sober as I've ever seen him and neatly dressed.

The same white dressed young man from the kitchen serve us. He offer us wine and I wonder if this meal will descend into the same kind of chaos we had on the train once Haymitch starts drinking, but it doesn't. Effie and Haymitch remain civil to one another, friendly even. We discuss the opening ceremonies and they praise our stylists' designs.

I pick at the food, thinking about what Cinna said earlier about the Capitol. What did he mean? What was he trying to say? The adults continue to small talk, but it becomes indistinct murmuring to my ears. They discuss the costumes for our upcoming interviews. More courses are delivered by the silent servants dressed in white.

A redheaded girl, about my age serves dessert. Seeing the Capitol desserts is always the highlight of the meal. And oh, what a cake. Tonight it's a meringue flambé. At home, we'd never have reason to make such an expensive cake, but I've seen pictures of it in our family's old recipe book, so at least one of my ancestors has made it. A meringue flambé is a layer of cake topped with ice cream and covered in swirls of sweeten meringue. The cake is sprayed with spirits and set on fire until the alcohol dissipates. The colored sugar flowers decorate the platter around the cake. It's beautiful.

Someone dims the lights in the dining room and the servant sets the cake on fire. It burns brightly for a few moments before going out and the lights come back on.

"What makes it burn?" Katniss asks. "Is it alcohol?" She then looks up at the girl. "That's the last thing I wa—oh! I know you!"

The girl shakes her head, denying Katniss' words and rushes from the table. I look over at the others. The atmosphere is no longer casual. Everyone has stopped eating to stare at Katniss. Their suspicion and disapproval is almost tangible. I'm not sure what she's said wrong.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possible know an Avox?" says Effie. "The very thought."

I'm wondering what an Avox is when Katniss asks same the question out loud.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," says Haymitch dismissively. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her."

The young man who made the sugar flowers kept swallowing but didn't speak. He is probably an Avox as well.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Effie." Of course, you don't really know her."

But she does, I can see it in her face. I'm not sure if there's some sort of punishment for knowing an Avox, but it wouldn't be smart to reveal it here. Katniss is struggling to come up with a response. She seems a little dazed. The wine must have affected her more than me. Maybe because I'm larger. Looking between her and the adults, I decide to help. I blurt out the first name that comes to me.

"Delly Cartwright," I say snapping my fingers. "That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

Delly Cartwright looks nothing like the redheaded girl. I've been friends with Delly most of my life back in District 12. Her family runs the shoe shop in town. She's the friendliest person I've ever met. In fact, her pathological bubbliness is of the same brand as Effie Trinket's. That's probably why I thought about her in the first place. Katniss jumps on my suggestion.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," says Katniss.

Delly's hair is blonde, not red, but I quickly agree. "Something about the eye, too," I say.

The four adults at the table seem to let out a collective breath. "Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Cinna. "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it especially in honor of your fiery debut."

After this, the conversation at the table returns to normal. We eat the cake and then go into the sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies. Our entrance into the city is spectacular. The other tributes look childish in comparison, playing dress up in costumes. We also come off looking like a team.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" asks Haymitch.

"Cinna's," says Portia.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Haymitch. "Very nice."

Cinna told me that being part of a team would set us apart, but I hadn't thought about it in terms of rebellion. I think again of the Avoxes with their cut out tongues. Rebels. Traitors. There's not much difference between the two terms. Would the Capitol really take objection for such a small thing? And where would Katniss have had the opportunity to meet a Capitol traitor?

After dinner, Haymitch sends us off to our rooms, explaining that we'll met him in the morning to plan for our training sessions.

I walk with Katniss down the corridor to our rooms. The question of the redheaded girl is still on my mind. I wait for her to say something about it, but she doesn't. When we get to her room I lean against the frame of her door.

"So Delly Cartwright," I say casually. "Imagine finding her lookalike here."

She understands what I'm asking, but looks conflicted, like she wants to tell me, but doesn't know how. I think of the roof. "Have you been on the roof yet?" She shakes her head.

"Cinna showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though." She catches my real meaning immediately.

"Can we just go up? Katniss says.

"Sure, come on," I say. I lead Katniss back up to the rooftop. It's gotten colder since I was up here with Cinna.

We walk over to the railing and I tell her about the force field that keeps people on the roof.

"Always worried about our safety," says Katniss. "Do you think they're watching us now?"

Even though it's too loud to hear, they could still have cameras watching us. "Maybe," I say.

If they are watching, we should give them a reason why we're up here, "Come see the garden."

We walk around to the other side of the roof where Cinna pointed out the garden. There couldn't have been a better place for two people trying not to be heard. All around the garden there are hundreds of wind chimes hanging from the branches of potted trees. We walk along the flower beds and I wait for her to explain.

She stoops down to look at a flower when she starts quietly. "We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game."

"You and your father?" I ask.

"No, my friend Gale," says Katniss. "Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her. I'm sure it was the same girl. A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it."

She stops, lost in her memories. I try to imagine her in the forest outside District 12, hunting under the canopy of trees and then running into two strangers. With Gale.

"The hovercraft appeared out of nowhere," she continues. "I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. A net dropped down on the girl and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened."

"Did they see you?" I ask. It all seems like something from a nightmare. Or from the Hunger Games.

"I don't know. We were under a shelf of rock," she says softly. Katniss looks away, lost again. And I see that she's shivering.

"You're shivering," I whisper. She's only wearing a thin shirt, but I don't think it's from the cold. I walk closer to her and wrap my jacket around her shoulders. I don't have much practice with girls, but this seems right.

"They were from here?" I ask while I button my jacket up around her.

She nods.

How could two people from the Capitol make it all the way to District 12? What were they planning?

"Where do you suppose they were going?" I ask. The only thing past District 12 are the ruins of District 13, destroyed by the Capitol during the uprising. It's barren, the air still toxic from the Capitol's assault, nothing could live there.

"I don't know that," says Katniss, "Or why they would leave here."

Cinna would leave. He made that clear earlier on the balcony in his coded words. For him, it's a place of twisted beauty designed to deceive. No matter how much they have, it's empty.

Now I'm the one shivering.

"I'd leave here," I say a little too loudly. The sound of my voice rises above the sound of the wind chimes. I have to be more careful, the dangers here are more real than in the bakery at home. And if I had to choose, I'd rather die in the arena then spend my life here as an Avox. I cover my tracks. I laugh a little and then add, "I'd go home now if they let me. But you have to admit the food's prime."

Katniss gives me a look. She knows that wasn't what I meant, but she doesn't say anything. I steer her back toward the brightly lit dome. "It's getting chilly. We better go in," I say.

At this point, I know it's pointless, but I want to know about Gale Hawthorne. She called him a friend. Is that all he is to her? "Your friend Gale," I say, "He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?"

"Yes. Do you know him?" asks Katniss.

_Only if you count keeping tabs on him because of you._ "Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other," I say.

"No, we're not related," she says.

I nod, swallowing the disappointment. My luck has been horrible lately.

"Did he come to say goodbye to you?"

"Yes." She looks at me cautiously. "So did your father. He brought me cookies."

He must have gone to see her after he said good-bye to me. I didn't know he would do that. It makes sense, though, my father always speaks highly of the Everdeen girls, at least when my mother isn't around.

"Really?" I say. "Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys. He knew your mother when they were kids."

She seems surprised by this, then nods thoughtfully. "Oh, yes," says Katniss, "She grew up in town."

I walk Katniss back to her room and she gives me back my jacket.

"See you in the morning then," she says.

"See you," I reply and I walk back down the hall to my room. The compartment still smells strongly of the rose scented foam, but someone has been in here. The costume I left on the floor has been folded neatly and the plastic packaging from the new clothing has been thrown away. I'm not use to someone picking up after me. I'm taken aback that someone has gone through my things, but I remember they're not my things, not really. Nothing here is mine.

I strip down to my underwear and slip between the smooth sheets. I lie in the darkened room for a long time, letting thoughts drift through my mind. I think of my brothers, the Capitol crowd, my father and Katniss' mother. What Katniss told me about the redheaded Avox, but sleep doesn't come.

After a while, the rose scent becomes overpowering, cloyingly artificial. My head starts to pound and I feel like throwing up. I get out of bed and walk to one of the windows. I fumble around in the dark for the latch that will open it, until, after a few seconds I realize it doesn't have one. The windows don't open. I sigh and sit down on the windowsill, the wood cool against my thighs.

It has to be four in the morning, but there are still people walking around on the sidewalk below me. I press my throbbing head to the cool glass and wait for the morning.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Up, Up, Up. It's going to be a busy day, we can't be late!" says Effie Trinket, rapping loudly on my door.

I peel my face off the foggy window pane. I can tell from the bright light outside, the sun has been up for some time. I get up and go to the bathroom, hurriedly stripping my underwear off as I go. I shower, this time without problems, then go to the closet and find an outfit already there—black pants, a long burgundy tunic, and lace up leather shoes. I dress and head to the dining room.

Katniss and Haymitch are already there when I walk in. Katniss, already eating, dips bits of her roll into hot chocolate like I did yesterday on the train, but Haymitch has just started making his plate. I grab a plate from the sideboard and select a few things for myself, some scrambled eggs, sausage, fresh pineapple, and batter cakes with orange preserves. I've never had fresh pineapple, even the canned stuff is rare. We use it as a filling in a few pastries. For some of the recipes there is always about half a can left over and my brothers and I split it.

I sit down opposite Haymitch and take a bite of the batter cakes, savoring the flavor. Haymitch is eating like he's never seen food before. By the time I finish my eggs, he's polished off several bowls of beef stew and grain and goes looking for more.

I save the pineapple for last. The tart and sweet flavor is so different from the yellow mush that comes in the cans. I'm again struck by how good and fresh all the food is, how they have foods that I've never seen in real life casually sitting in baskets, decorating the table.

Haymitch pulls a flask out of his pocket, taking a long drink before leaning his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

"Why would you coach us separately?" asks Katniss.

I look at Katniss and notice that she is wearing the same outfit as I am. This must be part of Cinna's strategy. But, since Haymitch is willing to coach us separately, maybe the strategy for us to appear as a team is just for show.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Haymitch.

Katniss and I exchange a look. "I don't have any secret skills and I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."

She looks stunned by this admission, but what else did she think we were doing with the squirrels? She turns back to Haymitch.

"You can coach us together," she says and I nod. Maybe our teaming up won't be such an act. Having a partner would be useful. This will be the first of three days of training with the other tributes. I have very little idea what any of them are like. I wish I'd paid more attention to the recap of the reaping instead of looking at Katniss.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch.

"I can't do anything," I say brightly. "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't," says Haymitch with a flat tone. "Katniss, I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really. But I can hunt," says Katniss. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?" asks Haymitch.

She pauses. "I'm all right," she says in a small voice.

I shake my head, now is not the time to be modest. I turn to Haymitch. "She's excellent," I say. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer."

Katniss looks at me with narrowed eyes. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"What are _you_ doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself."

"What about you?" Katniss asks. "I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That's not nothing."

I don't know why she's acting like this, I'm trying to help her. I have no chance and she must know it. "Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't."

"He can wrestle," she tells Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother."

I would never have guessed that she noticed anything I did in school or even if she did, that she would care. Still, wrestling is a useless skill in the arena, not when your opponent has a weapon.

"What use is that," I say. "How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" she says.

"But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye? As if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!"

"Oh, she meant you," Katniss says weakly.

"She said, 'She's a survivor, that one. She is," I manage to get out. I'd never meant to tell her, or anyone else that. I know I don't have a chance. I know that my life will end in the arena, but it is still so painful to be condemned by my own mother. I turn away, disgusted and ashamed.

"But only because someone helped me," Katniss says, her voice tiny.

My eyes lock on the roll in her hand and I know she's talking about the day in the rain when I threw her the bread. I think of the way she looked that day, small and gaunt, crumpled beneath the apple tree. And then I look at the girl in front of me, strong, able to provide for her family with what she catches in the woods. My bread didn't do that, she did that for herself.

Yes, I willingly took a punishment for her without knowing anything about her except that she could sing, but the whole nation has already seen how brave she was at the reaping. Once they see her hunting skills there will be no end to the sponsors she gets.

"People will help you in the arena," I say. "They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you," says Katniss.

I cast my eyes over at Haymitch and shake my head. "She has no idea. The effect she can have."

I look down, watching my finger trace a small crack in the wood grain of the table, a flaw in the Capitol's flawless world.

I can feel both of them looking at me. Katniss in anger and Haymitch more thoughtfully. After a minute, Haymitch says, "Well, then. Well, well, well."

He trails off and then gets back to the topic at hand. "Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," she says.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And, Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" Haymitch says, his tone firm.

Both Katniss and I nod.

"One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Haymitch.

I know this is the strategy, I agreed to this strategy, but now I'm not sure. This argument has opened up old wounds that neither of us needs going into the arena. We both start to object, but Haymitch slams his hand down on the table.

"Every minute! It's not open for discussion. You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training."

I stay seated at the table while Katniss stalks off toward the bedrooms.

"That one's got an angry streak a mile wide," says Haymitch conversationally.

I slump down a little further in my chair. "I'm not exactly happy about it, myself."

After a few more seconds, a door slams in the distance.

"Well, good luck with training today," he says, pulling out his flask. "You'll need it."

At a quarter to ten, I meet Effie at the elevator. Katniss hasn't showed up yet and Effie is starting to have a fit.

"Doesn't that girl know the importance of punctuality when it comes to first impressions?" she demands.

I don't think punctuality is a skill the Gamemakers care much about, but I make sympathetic noises partly for Effie's sake and partly because I'm still upset with Katniss. Effie paces around for a few more seconds before Katniss finally makes an appearance, toying nervously with the end of her braid.

We take the elevator down to the training rooms, which are below ground level. The vast gymnasium is crammed full with all kinds of weapons and obstacle courses. Looking around I see we are the last pair of tributes to arrive. The others are already here, standing in a tight circle. Someone comes by and pins a number 12 on my back, and we join the others in the circle.

All of them are tense, but hostility is roiling off the Careers Tributes from 1, 2, and 4. They look lethal, head and shoulders taller than most of the tributes from the poorer districts. The others are underfed and afraid. They have the same look as the starving kids from the Seam.

The head trainer, Atala, begins to explain the training schedule and the rules. The gymnasium is separated into stations that focus on different skills. Each tribute will be able to travel to every station. Some stations teach survival skills while others teach fighting techniques. All training is to be done with the assistants on hand. Tributes are not allowed to fight one another. After Atala finishes outlining the various stations, she dismisses us and the others spread out, mostly singularly, but the Careers stick together at the end of the gymnasium devoted to weapons; the swords, knives, and spears. They need little instruction. It's clear that they've all had years of practice

I turn towards Katniss and find that she too is watching the Careers. I give her shoulder a small nudge.

"Where would you like to start?" I say formally.

"Suppose we tie some knots," she answers just as coolly.

"Right you are," I say.

The fragile bond we developed last night on the roof has disappeared in the face of this morning's argument. I know she doesn't want to be tied to me, but I'm determined to follow Haymitch's instructions.

We walk over to the knot-tying station. Besides us, no one is there except the trainer, looking bored as he fiddles with a small piece of rope. He perks up once he realizes we mean to stop here and aren't passing through on our way to a more exciting station.

Katniss impresses him with her knowledge of snares. With her long clever fingers, she excels at the tying necessary for the traps. We practice a trap that will leave a person dangling from a tree by his foot. During one of her turns I notice her biting her fingernails. In between tying elaborate knots she stops to nibble on her fingertips, catches herself, and scowls down at her hand before returning to the trap.

I watch this happen about three times. It makes me smile.

That little, vulnerable detail puts everything back in perspective. This morning's argument was about nothing. We're both on edge, both anxious about what will happen. We have so little time left, I don't want to waste it being upset. I feel the chill in my chest begin to thaw. We work for about an hour until we've both mastered the trap. Then I pick the camouflage station as our next stop.

The camouflage station is as deserted as the knot-tying station, but I find it much more interesting. The trainer is clearly enthusiastic about the benefit of this skill and this enthusiasm must work. While we're there, a couple of other tributes drift over to watch. A girl with dark red hair from District 5 and the tiny, dark-skinned girl we saw reaped in District 11 hover around the edges of the station listening to her instruction.

"It's all about texture, color, and shape," she says. "If you can master these three things you can disappear into any background."

I swirl the different natural stains made from berries, mud and clay along my arm. I focus on the memory of the tree in my yard, how sunlight through the leaves creates a mottled pattern on the ground, how the limbs of trees branch out. Our trainer comes by to inspect my work.

"Excellent, that's exactly what I meant," she says holding up my arm for the others to see. "This pattern will blend into any forest." She moves away to talk to another tribute that has come up, a skinny dark-haired boy from District 3.

I continue working on my design. Katniss sits next to me weaving a disguise out of small twigs. The silence drags on. I may be willing to put this morning's argument behind us, but she's still holding a grudge.

"I do the cakes," I tell her.

She looks over distracted. "The cakes?" she asks. "What cakes?"

"At home. The iced ones, for the bakery," I say.

She looks again at the design on my arm. "It's lovely. If only you could frost someone to death," she says.

No, she's definitely not ready to let go of that grudge.

I snort. I know where my skills lie. I wasn't the one trying to talk them up this morning. "Don't be so superior. You can never tell what you'll find in the arena," I say. "Say it's actually a gigantic cake-"

"Say we move on," she says.

And we do. I let her pick the stations for the rest of the day. We practice starting fires, building shelters, and climbing techniques. As Haymitch directed, we stay away from archery and weightlifting, but that doesn't stop Katniss from excelling at the edible plant test. I also do well at the hand-to-hand combat station. I win against the trainer in four out of five of our sessions. Even the boy tribute from District 1, mutters "Nice going," under his breath before taking his place on the training floor mat.

While the Gamemakers, the people who create the arenas for the Games, meet with our trainers to evaluate our performances, we tributes have lunch in a dining room near the gymnasium. The food is arranged buffet style on carts around the room. Katniss and I sit together, but most of the other tributes sit alone, lost and dejected, staring down at their plates.

The Career Tributes are the exception. They sit noisily around one table, talking, laughing, and showing off. At school, I would have been at that table, popular and surrounded by friends. It's as shallow here as it was there. How long will their show of unity last in the arena?

As we sit there I try to further Haymitch's strategy. We're supposed to appear friendly and affable, but it's impossible to get Katniss to talk. Almost every conversation is forced, her answers mostly monosyllabic. I know she doesn't fully trust me. Except for our childhood interaction, we are near strangers. To make matters worse, the kids from town don't always mix well with kids from the Seam, and our present circumstances aren't helping.

At one point I find myself telling her about the different breads in the basket on our table. The Capitol has been considerate enough to include the traditional bread from each district along with the refined Capitol rolls. I pull them out one by one until I've gone through all the districts, ending with the drop biscuits we have in District 12.

"And there you have it," I say, putting the bread back in the basket.

"You certainly know a lot," says Katniss.

"Only about bread," I say. "Okay, now laugh as if I've said something funny." And we both force out a laugh. The laughter catches the Career Tributes off guard and they glare at us from across the room.

"All right, I'll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk," I say.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" Katniss asks tentatively.

Of course not, other than the story about the redheaded Avox, this is the first time she's offered to reveal anything about herself.

"No, but it sounds fascinating."

She hesitates. "It's not really fascinating and it's kind of long."

"Then it's a good thing I canceled all my appointments." I lean forward against the table. "I want to hear it, Katniss."

"Really?"

"Yes."

She leans forward as well, and starts talking softly so the other tributes can't hear. "It happened about a year ago, this spring," she says. "I was out in the woods hunting when I found a beehive inside a hollowed out log on the ground. My mother makes cough medicine with honey and the entire Seam, including her and my sister, were down with colds. They'd both been about to cough out lungs when I left that morning."

When I laugh, it isn't forced at all. "So, your mother, she'll a healer. Right?"

"Yes, her family ran the apothecary before she married my father. Now she makes medicines for the Seam." She pauses, biting her lip. "So, where was I?"

"You'd just found a beehive and you needed honey for medicine," I say.

"Right. So, I marked where the hive was and went to get some pine needles I could burn in front of the hive to smoke the bees out. It only took a few minutes, but when I got back there was a black bear pawing at the log. There was no way I was letting that bear get my honey, so I threw a rock at it to scare it away."

"Why didn't you shoot it with an arrow?" I say.

She shrugs, "I was alone. Even if I'd have killed it, there wouldn't have been any way for me to get it home. Besides, black bears don't usually bother us when we're out there."

"You and Gale?" I ask.

"Yeah, but Gale wasn't there that day. I don't remember why. We don't always hunt together," says Katniss. "So I hit the bear in the rump with the stone. I expected it to run because that's what black bears ordinarily do. But this one just snorted and huffed at me. It was thin, probably just waking up after sleeping all winter, so it needed the meal. There we were, me eyeing the bear and the bear eyeing me. It was a stalemate," she says.

"So what happened next?" I ask, completely engrossed in her story.

She grins, remembering. "A pack of wild dogs came running into the clearing. Both me and the bear practically jumped up trees to get away from them. The dogs ran through after a while, but the bear picked the wrong tree. The branches were too weak and the bear came crashing down. Right on top of the log with the beehive!"

"No," I say laughing.

"Yes," she says laughing, too. "It smashed the beehive to bits and the bees came swarming out. I had to hightail it to get away from them. Cut my hand getting out of that tree. I still have the scar."

Katniss holds up her right hand and I see a long jagged line down the side of her wrist. I cup her hand in mine to look at the scar. I run my finger along the tiny, even indentations where the wound was stitched closed.

"You should be more careful. This looks like it was serious," I tell her.

"You're one to talk," she says, brushing the scar on my arm with her fingertips. "Did you get this burn at the bakery?"

"Yeah, but I'm not telling that story," I say.

"Why," Katniss asks.

"Because it's not nearly as interesting as the one you just told." We laugh again, our heads close together.

We both realize that I'm still holding her hand at the same moment. She pulls her hand gently away and looks around the room.

"I think I'm going to get some more stew before it's time to get back to practicing," she says. She rises and walks away before I can say anything else.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

We visit the circuit of training stations, making conversation and learning to kill. For the most part, we get along better. I avoid her prickly edges and we get along much better. Throughout the morning, the other tributes steal glances at us, their faces curious about our strategy and strangest of all, envious of our relationship. Besides the Careers, we're the only team, the only ones facing the prospect of the arena together.

Around mid-morning, I notice that the girl tribute from District 11, I learned earlier her name's Rue, is trailing us from station to station, staying just a little behind, watching us with huge brown eyes. She must be twelve, but she looks younger, no more than nine or ten. All I can feel is the same anger I felt when they pulled Prim Everdeen's name from the glass bowl at the reaping. She's good, better than me at hitting targets consistency with a slingshot.

In the evening, we go back to the District 12 level for dinner where Haymitch and Effie badger us about what's happened during the day. How is training going?What are the other tributes doing? What are the Gamemakers doing?

"When they're not eating, the Gamemakers seem to be watching the Career Tributes… and us," I tell Haymitch.

It's true. In between eating at their endless buffet, I've noticed the Gamemakers looking over at me and Katniss a number of times, watching her throw spears, watching me in hand-to-hand combat.

"Perfect. We want them impressed even before your one-on-one assessments," says Haymitch.

"But you must take care not to give everything away during training," say Effie. "Isn't that right, Haymitch?"

"Exactly, keep them curious until the end," Haymitch says.

I'm floored every time I hear Effie and Haymitch agree. Since getting to the Training Center they've both been borderline civil to each other, but now they're a team, united in giving us never-ending, contradictory instructions.

"How are we supposed to impress them and be mediocre at the same time?" asks Katniss.

"Figure it out, sweetheart," says Haymitch. "Peeta says they're already looking at you. Just keep doing what you've been doing."

"Unless it stops working, of course," says Effie.

Katniss and I exchange a look. She rolls her eyes and tries to suppress a groan.

"Other than the Careers, do any of the other tributes look promising?" Haymitch asks. He takes a very measured sip of his wine. He's been like that since we got here, not exactly sober, but lucid enough to function.

"Promising how?" asks Katniss. She picks up a pile of tiny diamond shaped crackers from the basket and crushes them before adding them to her soup. Dinner has been over for hours, but we've been stuck at the dining table so long, Katniss ordered another bowl of soup.

"Like if they were coming toward you with an axe, you'd be inclined to move," says Haymitch.

Katniss opens her mouth, but I answer before she can get out whatever scathing response she has planned. "The boy tribute from District Eleven looks intimidating. I think I heard someone call him Thresh."

I've been trying to learn more about the tributes each day, striking up conversations at the training stations and at lunch, but most tributes are withdrawn, wary of even speaking in case they give away some weakness. Being with Katniss doesn't help matters, she tends to ignore the others and we have to stay together.

Haymitch nods, "Anyone else?"

Katniss and I both shake our heads, most of the other tributes are weaker and younger than me. Some of them are larger than Katniss, but much less prepared to survive in the arena.

Haymitch leans back, the front two legs of his chair coming off the ground. He stays suspended that way, looking at the ceiling, before leaning forward again, the chair legs clattering back to the floor.

"New assignment for tomorrow. I want you both to watch what the Career Tributes and Thresh practice and learn at least one defense. If the tributes from District One practice throwing spears, learn how to defend against it."

We nod. It's not a bad plan. Better than I would have guessed he'd come up with back on the train.

"And stay together," he adds. "Now get some rest."

Katniss and I rush from the dining room like kids dismissed from school for New Year's break, sprinting down the hall towards our rooms until we are out of sight. We stop, both of us breathless, leaning against the wall between our two doors, her on one side of the hallway, me on the other.

"Someone ought to get Haymitch a drink," I say.

Katniss gives a strangled laugh before catching herself. "Don't," she says. "Don't let's pretend when there's no one around."

Oh. Since lunch the day before, I didn't realize we were still pretending. I'd thought we were making some headway toward...something at least real. But I'm too tired to examine it. And she has a point, becoming friends now when we're heading for the arena, it isn't smart. I slump against the wall. It's her choice.

"All right, Katniss," I tell her before going to my room.

We spend the morning of the third day doing what Haymitch directed. We practice defense with swords, spears, and knives. We stay together. We are polite. I keep having to remind myself that her smiles aren't real, that this is all a strategy to attract the Gamemakers and sponsors.

At lunch they start calling us for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. They do it by district, with the boy going first, then the girl. So Katniss and I will go last. No one comes back after their assessment, so the dining room empties until only we are left. Without the others around, we don't talk, no reason to pretend since no one is around. We wait like that, sitting next to each other, not talking, not looking at each other, until my name is called. I stand up to go.

"Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights," says Katniss, breaking the silence. She looks surprised that she spoke and makes a face like she regrets saying anything. I wonder why she bothered.

I nod. "Thanks. I will. You…shoot straight."

The private session goes about as well as I expect. About twenty or so Gamemakers sit in their purple robes above the gymnasium and I throw around heavy weights. They seem neither impressed nor disappointed. Some of them take a few notes before turning their attention back to the buffet set up behind them. It's a very simple arrangement. They drink, I throw. They eat, I throw. I start thinking that maybe I should do some camouflage too, when they abruptly dismiss me.

An attendant directs me to the elevator and I ride up, missing Katniss' company. She always loves to ride the elevator. We rode it twice the first day of training because she supposedly forgot something in one of the training rooms, but she came back as empty handed as she left. Then I remember that I can't miss her because I've never met the real her.

The elevator stops on our floor and I step off. No one's around, not even the white clad servants, so I head down the hall to my room. I order a drawing pad and some pencils using the automated buying features and the items are in my hands in less than five minutes. I take the pad over to the window and sit down cross legged on the sill, the large drawing pad in my lap. All around me are the buildings of the Capitol. They don't interest me. I don't want to draw them with their colored towers, but I do want to draw something. This might be my last chance and I've never had such good materials. At home, I use the back sides of discarded school paper and charcoal. But I can feel the costliness of this drawing paper under my fingers, the smooth glide of pencil against page as I make a few practice lines.

In the shorter building across from the Training Center I see a little brood of sparrows taking a dust bath on the roof. The multi-colored miniature trees that pepper the sidewalks of the Capitol could never shelter a nest so the birds find their homes among the skyscrapers. They remind me of Rue. Katniss pointed out to me during training that she always stands with her arms held out from her body like a small bird ready to take flight. That Rue reminds her of Prim is written all over her face, but Katniss can't protect Rue like she protected her sister.

Instead of practice strokes, my hand gradually begins sketching the birds. They seem so out of place here among the steel structures, the bright artificial world of the Capitol, just like me. I wonder if these tiny brown speckled birds have ever lived anywhere but here. If they've ever nested in the soft green leaves of a real tree and miss it.

When I was little, my father would tell me stories about a boy who could turn into a bird. It was my favorite story growing up.

_A young boy named Jack was trapped on top of a high mountain where wild animals had chased him to the edge of a cliff. He wished and wished to have wings just as a bird has so that he could fly away from danger. Suddenly his hair turned into feathers and his arms turned into wings and he was able to fly right off the mountain. _

_Jack loved flying so much. He'd never been as free or powerful as when he felt his wonderful wings take him higher than even the mighty mountain, when even the clouds were beneath him. After a long day of flying, Jack became tired and found a spot to land at the edge of his village. _

_As he reached safety, a great falcon spoke to him out of the sky telling him that he had only three opportunities to use his wings so he should choose carefully, then the bird flew off. Jack's wings disappeared and his feathery head changed back into hair. He made it back to his small village, but the mayor of his village saw him flying. This man had much power in their village, but he was greedy and wanted riches as well. The mayor cornered the young boy and told Jack if he did not sprout wings and fly for him every day in the village marketplace, he would take his family and put them in prison. But, the mayor promised, if he did fly Jack could have fame and some of the money as well. Jack knew his family was very poor and could never stand up to the official. Jack also knew that he could only fly twice more. Each time his feet touched the ground he would turn into a boy again. So Jack hatched a plan that would make him a bird anytime he liked._

_Jack took a bunch of chicken feathers and some very thin, but strong rope and tied it to the tallest shop in the marketplace. He made the feathers into wings and slipped them over his arms and tied the other end of the rope to his waist. And from there, Jack flew from the tallest building in the village._

My father would then tell me that no matter how small our gifts, we must never waste them. This was the cause of my fascination with birds. I always wanted one of the birds I fed to be the great bird the story so I could fly away.

I'm finishing the outline of the drawing when I hear feet pounding down the hallway and a door slam. It's Katniss, I'd recognize that door slamming anywhere. I grip the pencil harder. Whatever the problem is, we're not friends, it's not my business. She doesn't want my help, she's made that perfectly clear. I force myself go back to drawing when I hear Effie and Haymitch start pounding on Katniss' door, asking loudly what's wrong. Yes, it's their problem, not mine.

I can't help wondering what the problem is, though. Maybe her private session didn't go well. I shrug. Not my problem. Not at all.

I last a few more seconds before I'm standing in the hall. Haymitch is still knocking on Katniss' door while Effie paces in front of him. I hear a muffled "Go away" from behind the door. So, at least they haven't cut out her tongue.

"What could be the problem, Haymitch?" Effie asks. "You said they were doing well. Why would she fall apart now?" She seems anxious and I have to wonder whether it's really concern for Katniss, or fear that her best year at the Games is about to be spoiled.

"How am I supposed to know what's wrong with the girl," Haymitch groused. "I don't have kids. I can't deal with their tantrums. I don't even like…." He spots me standing in my doorway. They both stalk down the hall to my door like I'm the one to blame.

"Do you know what this is about?" he asks me. He points at the closed door.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I don't have kids either."

"Peeta!" says Effie.

"Did something happen during your private sessions?" asks Haymitch.

"I haven't seen her since before our sessions. Her's was after mine," I say.

"You were supposed to wait for her," says Haymitch.

"You didn't say that," I say.

"I said stay together. Staying together is a huge part of staying together!" he yells.

"Katniss doesn't want me around anymore than she has to," I say. "Look, I'm sure whatever it is isn't a big deal. She'll come around, most likely in time for our next meal. I don't think she'll miss that, no matter how bad things might be. "

They both look amused and a little reassured. We all know Katniss lives for the food. Haymitch walks away, relieved that he doesn't have to deal with teenage hysterics. Effie is a little slower to leave, shooting one last glance at Katniss' closed door before walking back towards the sitting room.

Katniss does join our dinner party, eyes downcast and sullen. Worst of all, she barely eats. She comes in late and takes the seat across from me. The others try to be polite and ignore her bad mood, but I can't stop thinking about the reaping and how she didn't cry when she said goodbye to her family. Her eyes were dry when we made it to the train. What could have happened? What did they do to her?

After a while, she must sense I'm staring at her because she finally looks over at me. Her gray eyes are red rimmed and my every instinct is to make her feel better. A feeling of cold dread settles in my stomach and I know that, no matter what, I'll never be immune to Katniss Everdeen.

I raise my eyebrows in question, but she just gives a tiny shake of her head before staring back down at her fish soup.

As they're serving the main course, Haymitch says, "Okay, enough small talk, just how bad were you today?" I know he's asking Katniss, but she doesn't answer.

"I don't know that it mattered," I say. "By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go."

After I say this, Katniss looks up at me, a little less miserable.

"And you, sweetheart?" says Haymitch.

The dullness in her eyes is replaced by irritation. I can't believe how relieved I am to see her scowl.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers," says Katniss.

The room goes quiet. "You what?" Effie says, the horror clear in her voice.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them. In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just…I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" says Katniss.

I'm doing my best not to laugh and appear outraged and concerned like everyone else. I hadn't seen that coming. It was hotheaded and reckless, but it's also the most amazing thing I have ever heard. She shot an arrow at the Gamemakers.

"And what did they say?" says Cinna.

"Nothing. Or I don't know," Katniss says. "I walked out after that."

"Without being dismissed?" asks Effie.

"I dismissed myself," she says.

"Well, that's that," says Haymitch. He's very calm about it. No sarcastic remarks. No yelling. He just reaches across the table to get a roll from the basket. He butters it as though this was the most common situation in the world. Then I realize Haymitch is trying to comfort her in his own abrasive and surly way. He's making it a non-issue.

Katniss asks him if they will punish her or her family for what she did. Haymitch shrugs and tells her that the Gamemakers wouldn't ever want the population to know what she did, so they wouldn't use it to punish her family. All private sessions are supposed to be kept secret anyway.

"More than likely they'll make your life hell in the arena," says Haymitch.

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyway," I say.

"Very true," says Haymitch. He picks up his pork chop by the bone and dunks it into his glass of wine. Then he rips a chunk of it off with his teeth. This earns him a withering look from Effie, turning her scandalized attention away from Katniss.

The tension goes out of the room along with the tightness in Katniss' shoulders. Portia tries to be encouraging, assuring her that the scores don't matter. That some tributes hide their talents until they get to the arena. But we all know that the scores do matter, especially if you come from one of the poorer districts.

Sponsors don't give tributes money out of the kindness of their hearts. While a few of the sponsors are from the richest districts and back their own tributes every year, the majority of sponsors come from the Capitol where they never have anyone at stake. They sponsor tributes because they've bet money on them. They want the bragging rights. Sponsors might believe that a Career Tribute is hiding skills, but with tributes like us, they'd take a poor score at face value.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," I tell Katniss anyway. "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards? One almost landed on my foot."

Katniss grins at me before taking a huge bite of her pork chop.

We go into the sitting room to watch the score announcements. The Gamemakers rank tributes based on their overall training as well as the private session. The highest possible score is a twelve, but no one in the history of the Hunger Games has ever pulled that off. I have seen a couple scores of one, though. The last time was few years ago, when the boy tribute from District Seven was both deaf and blind. He was dead less than five minutes after entering the arena.

The Career Tributes all do very well with the tributes from District 2 both getting a score of ten. The other Career districts, 1 and 4, get an assortment of eights and nines. District 11 also fares well with Thresh getting a nine and Rue a notable and surprising seven. The rest of the tributes score between three and five. Then it's time for District 12. No matter how much I tell myself I don't care, that I know I don't stand a chance in the arena I'm still anxious, leaning forward in my sit when my picture appears. Below my photo, they flash score of eight. That's higher than the four I guessed I would get and the six I'd hoped for. Some of the Gamemakers must have liked what they saw.

I can't relax yet without knowing Katniss' score. She's sitting next to me going through the same anxious moment I just did, and I didn't give the Gamemakers a reason to hate me. I don't want to seem like I'm gloating if her score is low. So I wait with her for her number to flash on the screen.

But it seems all of us were worried in vain. The Gamemakers didn't punish her with a low score, not even close. They didn't punish her at all it seems, because the score that flashes beneath the unsmiling photo of Katniss Everdeen is an eleven.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Katniss could win. _

Everyone is cheering and celebrating, drowning out the commentary of the announcers on the screen, but it's all going in slow motion. The only thought in my head is that she could _win_. It doesn't matter that she got the score based more on her attitude than her skills, with a score like that any sponsor would be glad to bet on her.

_Katniss could go home._

After the score announcement, a stunned Katniss shakes my hand and we congratulate each other. The whole time, her eyes never once meet mine, but I can't stop staring at her closed off face. I always knew she would do better than me in the arena, little Rue will probably do better than me in the arena, but for the first time I wonder if I'm looking at the victor of the seventy-fourth Hunger Games.

The others eye me with an odd mixture of pity and dismal congratulations. Effie keeps patting me on the back and telling me that an eight is a perfectly serviceable score. Katniss disappears almost immediately, but I wait for the excitement to die down before drifting back to my room.

I'll admit it, a part of me is jealous. My ego is a little bruised, but that emotion is buried under my realization. My mother was right. Katniss could win.

I imagine her going home to her family, her little sister, providing them with all the things they've never had. Our district finally having another victor, monthly parcels of food being delivered to the poorest parts of the Seam...

A knock at my door startles me out of my thoughts. Haymitch walks in without waiting for my answer.

"The Career's mentors have requested you as an ally," says Haymitch after shutting the door firmly behind him.

"What?" I say, sitting up on the bed, my eyebrows knit in confuse. He couldn't have said what I thought he said

"The Career's mentors want you as an ally," Haymitch repeats, his voice clearly annoyed.

"You must have walked into the wrong room. Katniss is the one with the eleven," I say.

"No, the Careers made it clear. This is a deal just for you," says Haymitch.

That doesn't make sense. Why would they overlook the tribute with this year's highest score—any year's highest score? "What's this about, Haymitch?" I ask.

Haymitch slumps down in the chair in the corner of my room, taking his time to look me up and down. "A team of two high scoring tributes could give them problems. They're trying to separate you."

"You said a high score was good. It gets you sponsors," I say, still trying to catch up. "Everybody was just celebrating that score."

"Well, it's both. A high score attracts sponsors," says Haymitch. "But it also means that the other tributes, especially the Career Tributes, will try to hunt her down. When a girl from District 12 outscores all of them, you better believe it puts a bull's eye on her back."

It makes sense, in a cold-blooded sort of way. Weed out the weaker tributes first, and then hunt down the serious competition after they're starved in the arena for a few days.

But only the most ruthless tributes team up with the Careers, and they're always seen as traitors to their districts, universally despised. Even if I won the Games by helping them hunt down Katniss, everyone back home would hate me. And I would hate myself, a violent monster, a beast who killed on command. Katniss and I may never be friends, but I would never hurt her.

"And you think I should help them?" I ask, almost yelling.

I'm up from the bed, pacing the length of the room, trying to calm down.

"Peeta, listen," says Haymitch, snagging my arm in a tight grip my as I pass him. He's never called me by my name before. I didn't think he knew it. I jerk my arm out of his grip.

"Peeta," Haymitch says again. "I was planning to present you as a team in the arena. It was a risk, one I thought might pay off. But I'm telling you from experience that when tributes from the same district ally themselves together it always ends in pain. At least for one of them."

I've never heard Haymitch so serious, so without his caustic veneer. There is something almost defeated in his posture. This confession has cost him, dredging up the ghosts of Hunger Games past.

I look into his Seam gray eyes and ask the only question that matters. "What about Katniss?"

"You told me Katniss would be able to survive alone in the arena," says Haymitch. "Can you say the same for yourself? Can you hunt and forage the way she can?"

"No," I say, resenting the truth of that statement. I've only had a few days of practice in the Training Center. She's been doing it most of her life.

"This maybe your chance, your best chance, to survive. The strategy of the Careers is always to get ahold of the food and water supply first. Just like I'm betting she can stay alive in the arena, I'm trusting that you can handle the wolves in the Career Pack."

I stalk back over to the bed and flop onto it. Everything about this feels like a betrayal. Not only of Katniss, but a betrayal of myself and my district—everything I said goodbye to at the reaping.

When I don't say anything, Haymitch lets out a noisy breath.

"It's your life on the line," says Haymitch. "Think about that tonight and tell me what you decide in the morning. I'm going to get a drink."

With that, Haymitch gets up and leaves the room.

I lie there, unmoving for a long time, my head buried in the soft sheets. The choice is simple. On one hand, I could try to save myself—and eventually fail. There is no way I can outlast all six Career Tributes. I'm not that good and I've seen it play out over and over in past Games, and they'll turn on me as soon as I lose my usefulness.

On the other hand, I could find a way to support Katniss and just maybe she can make it home, give District 12 another victor besides Haymitch.

Death or death. It isn't much of a choice, but it's the only one I way I die is the only choice I can control.

I know the answer before I fully form the question in my mind. Of course, I'm going to help Katniss. At least this way my death might have some meaning, a cause that makes all of this worthwhile. The only question left is how.

Haymitch is right about being with her in the arena. She'd have to do most of the survival work and that wouldn't be fair. And the Career Tributes will be after both of us. The best strategy would be to somehow distract them.

I focus on the idea of having a plan and some of the tension leeches from my body. Thinking up plans is something I can do.

It's daybreak before I have the beginnings of a plan that might work. It's a beautiful morning, peaceful in the way of Sunday mornings everywhere, which is surprising considering that I'm here in the Capitol. Two days from entering the arena.

I get up, take a shower, and then put on an outfit I find in the closet, a green shirt and gray pants. I head down, walking slowly, taking my time. When I round the corner into the dining room I'm relieved to see that Katniss isn't there. Effie and Haymitch are sitting around the table. Effie looks her usual, sparkly self, but Haymitch looks grim. He waves me over to the table. I grab a quick plate of batter cakes and sit down.

"Have you decided yet?" asks Haymitch without preamble. I nod, feeling unsure about my plan.

"So, what are you going to do?" Effie asks.

"I'm going to ally myself with the Careers, but I have a plan—" I tell them.

"That's fine," says Haymitch. "We can discuss planning during our coaching session." His face is unreadable. I can't tell if he's disappointed or relieved I chose the Careers. Effie is much easier to read. She's upset.

"Do you think that's a wise choice, Peeta?" asks Effie.

"Don't bother him," says Haymitch abruptly. "He has a right to choose his own strategy. I'll have to contact their mentors after breakfast. All of this is cutting it very short."

He looks at me. "And I'll have to tell Katniss about our change of plans. You two will have to be trained separately."

"I'm counting on it," I say. I don't think I could go ahead with my plan if we weren't coached separately.

Katniss comes in, fixing herself a plate of lamb stew before joining us at the table. I take a bite of my batter cakes, but it sticks in the back of my throat, thick and overly sweet. I have to swallow hard to get it down. Effie and Haymitch don't say anything. Katniss is the only one eating, but even she realizes something is up after a few minutes of silence.

"So, what's going on?" she says, half distracted by her food. "You're coaching us on interviews today, right?"

"That's right," says Haymitch.

"You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and eat at the same time," says Katniss.

"Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," Haymitch reveals.

"What's that?" Katniss asks with a confused tone.

Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

For one second her gray eyes flash to mine and I see the jolt of betrayal in their depths. I look away from her and pretend to take another bite of my batter cakes. Guilt washes over me. I want to apologize, to tell her that it isn't what she thinks. But she recovers before I do.

"Good," says Katniss. "So what's the schedule?"

"You'll each have four hours with Effie for presentation and four with me for content," says Haymitch. "You start with Effie, Katniss."

Effie and Katniss get up and retreat to Katniss' room for whatever presentation involves, Haymitch withdraws to call the other mentors about our alliance and I'm stuck at the table wondering if I've done the right thing. The servants have cleared the table by the time Haymitch comes back.

"So, what's this plan of yours?" Haymitch's voice is inquisitive as he walks briskly back into the dining room. We both walk over to the sitting room.

"You said last night that you'd planned to present us as a team," I say. "How were you going to do that?"

"You better not have changed your mind," says Haymitch. "Not after the three phone calls I just made."

"No, I still want to be with the Careers," I say. "I only want to know what you were going to do."

"Pair you in the arena and have you tell some sappy story about being friends back in District 12 during your interviews. Very basic stuff to get you a little sympathy with the audience and maybe more camera time in the arena. The more the audience likes you, the less likely the Gamemakers will tear you apart the first day."

"Would it have worked if…" I stall.

"If what," Haymitch asks.

"If you'd have presented us as more than friends," I squirm in my seat while I wait for Haymitch to say something but he doesn't. He runs his hands through his dark hair then down his face, stretching the loose flesh of his jowls before saying tersely, "I know you have some _idiotic _crush on the girl. How serious is it?"

"Very," I say simply.

"Why her?" he asks in a strangled voice. He looks at the ceiling as if for inspiration, then he shakes his head. "Never mind, I don't want to know." He pulls a flask out of his breast pocket and takes a drink. "Have you even said anything to her?"

I shake my head and he chuckles. "I'll tell you now, that girl would take a lot of convincing," says Haymitch, but his voice has taken on a serious tone. "So, what do you want to do about it?"

"Help her stay alive," I say.

Haymitch covers his eyes with one hand, palm stretched across his forehead, massaging his temples, "You know only one person wins this thing, right? That everybody else dies?"

Haymitch looks me intently, as if he actually wants me to answer the question. Like everyone else, I've been watching the Hunger Games all my life. Of course I know how the Games work.

"I know," I say grudgingly.

"Is she worth it?" presses Haymitch.

"She has a better chance of winning than I do," I say.

Haymitch falls into silence again. When he does speak, he sounds twice his age. "What's your plan?"

"Do what you said. Use the interview to gain sympathy, then lead the Careers away in the arena," I explain.

"The Careers won't play nice if they know about your little romance with target number one," he says.

"I'll lie," I say. "Tell them I lied during the interview to find out her secret skill. The audience will be glued to the television trying to figure out what's true."

"If they find out that you're tricking them…you won't like what they'll do to you, kid," says Haymitch.

Torture is common in the Hunger Games, especially with the Career Tributes. It's almost a requirement for any finale.

I can't help it when a shiver passes through me. That's not the way I want to die. "Then I better not get caught."

Haymitch seems to have recovered or maybe the liquor has kicked in. He looks at me more critically. "You know, this could work. Bring in more sponsors for both of you, not just Katniss. The Capitol eats this kind of thing up."

I smile a little. "I had thought of that." I'll need those sponsors. The plan only works if I'm alive long enough to be of help to Katniss.

"Okay, so let's work on how you'll say it," says Haymitch.

We work on the content of my interview for the rest of my allotted time. I'm supposed to be "likable" during my interview. We go over a few jokes and stories I may try to fit in during my three minutes before talking about Katniss.

"Be sure to leave that until the very end. You're the last tribute to be interviewed and that's when it'll make an impression," Haymitch says as we go back towards the dining room

"Trust me, Haymitch," I say. "I'm not in any hurry to tell this to the world."

We're laughing when Katniss comes into the dining room barefoot, wearing a long ball gown hitched up around her knees. She's furious, but on her it's strangely attractive. I can't help it, but my eyes slide down the length of her legs. They're runner's legs, smooth and toned.

"Presentation didn't go well, sweetheart?" he asks. I look up just in time to see her glaring at both of us.

I ignore them and their mutual love of bickering by slipping out and making my way to my room where I find Effie. We work for about an hour on my presentation. I say dozens of phrases while she instructs me—apparently I have a tendency to drop eye contact. We shake hands about a hundred different ways. She tells me my posture is fine and that my smile is "winning." Then she's gone and I'm on my own for the rest of the afternoon.

I order lunch in my room, some of that lamb stew with dried plums and wild rice Katniss was eating for breakfast, and then a second bowl. The too-full feeling makes me incredibly tired and I lie down to catch up on the sleep I missed. It dawns on me that I haven't had a full night of sleep since the reaping. I've been too racked with anxiety since then.

I have breakfast in my room, too. I order a dish I can't pronounce, something with mounds of soft sweet cheese and pastry, then devour it. Afterwards, I go back to sleep.

My prep team doesn't come to prepare me for the interview until the afternoon. They breeze into my room and repair the damage I've done to their handiwork since the opening ceremonies. It's mostly painless. Mostly. Lucia does bring out the tweezers to pluck any stray hairs that have cropped up on my face.

They do their best to tame my hair and make my nails presentable after three days of brutal training. I'm skeptical when Lucia pulls out the makeup, coating my face in various creams and powders, but when they let me see myself in the mirror it doesn't look bad. I chat with them while they work. I learn that Lucia and Vitus are brother and sister. They act like it, bickering and teasing each other. They're both flighty and shallow, arguing about parties for the Games and what they plan to wear, but they make me miss my own brothers.

Portia shows up after about an hour and helps me dress in the black suit she has designed for the interview. Along the lapel and cuffs are reflective gems in shades of red, orange, yellow, and tipped with blue. When I move the colors flash like flames. She selects a watch with a black leather strap from a jewelry case, holding it up to my wrist. She looks at it for a moment before changing her mind, selecting a silver one. She then pulls out a selection of cuff links. She picks a pair that have fires that actually flicker against a silver background.

"Are you ready for your interview?" asks Portia. "Haymitch seems to think you'll do fine, but he was vague on your approach."

"Yeah, that," I say. "It's supposed to be a surprise."

"Well, I'll leave you to your surprise," she says. "Whatever it is, I know you'll charm the audience. Remember that Caesar Flickerman is there to help you. It's his job to make the tributes shine."

Caesar Flickerman is the host of the tribute interviews, along with the mentors, he's a permanent fixture of the Hunger Games. He's been at it for more than forty years and he hasn't visibly aged in all that time. His face is still wrinkle-free and he bounces around in his twinkling blue suit like a man of twenty-five. One thing he does change is his hair and makeup. It's different for each year of the Hunger Games. Last year, his hair, eyelids, and lips were stained blood red. With his customary white makeup, that color made him look like a corpse.

"You've already made me shine," I say to Portia. "Just look at this suit."

"See what I mean," says Portia. "You're too charming for your own good." Portia takes a lint brush and runs it over the back suit. "Ready to go?"

I nod and we head out of my room and down to the elevator where we meet up with everyone else. We make a handsome party. The stylists are always fashionable, Cinna in his understated way and Portia in the Capitol style. Haymitch and Effie must have borrowed our stylists because they are both dressed well, too.

And it seems I'm destined to match Katniss Everdeen for whatever remains of my life. Her dress is covered in the same flame colored reflective gems that make up my accents. I have flame accents, but she is a flame, mesmerizing and dangerous. Every move creates tongues of fire. She avoids me and Haymitch, sticking close to her stylist and Effie.

The interviews take place on an outdoor stage set up in the City Circle. We line up with the other tributes and was for our turn. Right before we begin, Haymitch comes up to us and growls, "Remember, you're still a happy pair. So act like it."

That's easy to say, but Katniss is still avoiding me. But us behaving like strangers would look odd giving the content of my interview. There's not much I can do about it now, as we walk single file into the blazing white light of the stage and take our seats, which are spaced too far apart for any communication.

City Circle is jammed packed with crowds on every side craning to see us. High-status guest and the Gamemakers, have elevated seating but the streets are standing room only. Camera crews hover on balconies recording the interviews for all the districts. Everyone back in District 12 will be watching either on their televisions at home, staked out in the public square, or huddled into our small community center.

Our host, Caesar Flickerman bounds onto the stage and the crowd gives a riotous cheer. This year, instead of blood red, his hair, eyelids, and lips are all powder blue. He bows once or twice before telling a few opening jokes, usually self-effacing ones. It's fine to make fun of oneself, but never ever the president or the prominent members of his government. He's been doing his job far too long to fall into that trap. After the laughter dies down, Caesar begins calling out the tributes to work their various angles in front of the crowd.

I pay special attention to the Career Tributes. During the interviews, the girl tributes precede the boys so the girl from District 1 is first. With her long blonde hair, green eyes, and see through gown, she's sexy in an over-the-top kind of way. Turns out her name is Glimmer. She illustrates this by gesturing to the strategically placed glimmering crystals on her chest. I have to admit it's a smart move, no one will be forgetting her name anytime soon.

Her district partner, Marvel, goes for charming. He's blond, too, with a wiry build. He gets the crowd cheering by doing a series of complicated back flips across the stage.

The tributes from District 2, Clove and Cato, are both out for blood and glory. Clove is petite and dark haired. She would remind me of Katniss if it wasn't for the look in her dark eyes, a combination of cunning and homicidal anticipation.

The boy, Cato, is massive, at least 6 and a half feet, and ruthless. He spends most of his interview bragging about how he's already killed three opponents while training for "sports" back in District 2. The only sport in District 2 is training to volunteer for the Games. It's against the rules for tributes to train before the Games, but it's an open secret that tributes from the Career Districts train for years before volunteering.

The last pair of Career Tributes comes from District 4, the fishing district. The girl, Kai, is aloof. She gives ambiguous answers to almost all Caesar's questions. She acts as if she has some sort of big secret, but it might only be a bluff. The boy, Pelles, is violent and brash.

The interviews rush by. Each tribute has three minutes to talk before a buzzer rings and their time is up. Portia was right about Caesar Flickerman. He does try to make the tributes shine. Throughout the interviews, he gives the audience a reason to root for the tribute, asking all the right questions.

Even with Caesar's help, most of the other tributes give unremarkable interviews and they blend into each other. Interviews from Districts 5, 6, and 7 fly by. Then 8, 9, and 10 are done and the tributes from District 11 are having their turn. The little girl, Rue, looks like a fairy in gossamer wings. Every time I see her that same helpless anger I felt at the reaping when Prim's name was pulled reappears, twisting my gut. Caesar is gentle with her. She makes a good impression on the crowd and they clap with enthusiasm as she exits the stage. Even here in the Capitol, there's a palatable sentiment of regret in the crowd, but of course, no one acts on it.

The next time I look up Caesar is calling Katniss Everdeen. She rises slowly and walks center stage to meet Caesar Flickerman, her back rigid, the flicker of her dress shooting tongues of flame. They shake hands and Caesar asks, "What's impressed you most since you arrived here?"

Katniss seems dazed, staring blankly out into the crowd just like during the opening ceremonies, making me fight down a flare of anxiety for her. It takes her a moment, but she finally answers, "The lamb stew."

Caesar laughs as though this is the cleverest joke he's ever heard, then a scattering of the laughter goes through the audience. He goes on, getting the audience involved and she relaxes. He asks her about the flames we wore at the opening ceremony and she spins in her flaming dress. She again becomes the smiling, giddy girl from the chariot ride. It's so different and decidedly _not_ her that I can't get over it, but the crowd cheers.

They talk about her score, the big eleven. Caesar begs her to reveal how she got it but she smiles and says "Sorry. My lips are sealed."

Finally, they talk about the reaping and how she volunteered for her sister.

"Let's go back then, to the moment they called your sister's name at the reaping," says Caesar. He's serious now, trying to move the crowd toward sympathy. "And you volunteered. Can you tell us about her?"

"Her name's Prim," says Katniss. "She's just twelve. And I love her more than anything."

Everyone in the audience is hanging on her words now, even the other tributes are watching closely. Not one of them moves an inch.

"What did she say to you? After the reaping?" asks Caesar.

Katniss swallows, "She asked me to try really hard to win."

"And what did you say?" asks Caesar.

Katniss look at him with determination. "I swore I would," she says.

The buzzer sounds, and the crowd breaks in applause.

Which means it's my turn. Immediately, my heart rate goes skyward, I haven't been nervous at all until this moment. Caesar's calling my name and it's just like the reaping, the walk to the stage even has the same dream-like quality. The feeling dissipates as I come up to Caesar, I put on my best face and give his hand a firm shake I think would make Effie Trinket proud.

"Peeta Mellark, the baker's son from District 12," says Caesar. "Do you think baking has taught you anything that will help in the arena?"

It's meant to be a throw away comment, but I take it. "I do, Caesar," I say. "Baking has given me the strategic advantage."

"Oh, really. Do tell," says Caesar. "Enquiring minds want to know, don't we?" Caesar turns to the audience and they're shouting for me to answer.

"You see, at home we are taught all about the different district breads. The breads are like their districts so you get a feel for each. Like the bread from District 1, it's a very fancy braided loaf with nuts, just like the district—fancy and a little nutty."

The crowd roars with laughter and the nervousness disappears. It's like telling jokes at the cafeteria table, only bigger. A camera crew finds the District 1 mentors in the crowd. They both laugh good-naturedly, but I wonder how much of that is real.

"And District 3," I continue. "They make all these tiny, perfectly square rolls. No one knows how they do it but they must use a machine you can't get in any other district. And that's pretty much what you get in the district—mystery and machines."

"And how will this help you in the arena?" Caesar asks.

"Well, I know that if the tributes from District 3 have any kind of machines, I'll l try to form an alliance."

The crowd laughs again and the mentor from District 3 stands up and shouts, "Would you mind putting that in writing?" This causes the crowd to burst into even more cheers and laughter.

"Okay, okay," Caesar says, catching his breath from laughing. "So, what impresses you most about the Capitol? Is it the same as your district partner, the lamb stew?"

"I do like the lamb stew," I say. "But I love your showers. Well, except the first time I used it."

"What happened?" he asks.

I tell him about the incident with the shower filling with rose scented foam. "I kept pushing buttons looking for a way to make it stop, but the foam just kept growing. I had to start shoving the stuff back into the shower until I found the button that makes it evaporate. Everything in the room has smelled like roses ever since. Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" I ask.

Caesar plays along like I knew he would. We're alike in this way, it's not hard for us to put on a show. He leans over and sniffs me. "He smells magnificent," Caesar tells the crowd. Then he sniffs me a second time. If it's possible, the crowd whoops harder.

"How about me? I feel like I'm broiling under these lights."

I lean over and sniff him back and it brings the crowd to their feet with applause.

Caesar has to wait for the crowd to quiet down before continuing.

"We've talked about the other districts and about the Capitol," says Caesar. "What about home? Is there someone waiting for you back in District 12?"

"Only my family," I say.

"What about a girlfriend?" Caesar asks.

I shake my head.

"Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar.

I know it's time to talk about Katniss and the nervousness has come back in full force. I let out a shaky breath. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping."

A murmur of sympathy goes through the crowd. I'll take what I can get. I need the support, even if it's from the same crowd that will cheer my bloody death. This is much harder than I imagined sitting in a room with Haymitch.

"She have another fellow?" Caesar says with pity.

"I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," I say. To my endless irritation, it's true. She's pretty and something of a mystery and that attracts attention. But she doesn't pay them any more attention than she does to me.

Caesar puts his hand on my shoulder. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?"

It hits me then, so hard I have to lock my knees to keep standing. No matter how this turns out, there won't be a happy ending. No matter what, I lose everything.

"I don't think it's going to work out," I say hoarsely. "Winning…won't help my case.

"Why ever not?" says Caesar, his powder blue brows creased in confusion.

I feel my face growing red and I have to force the words out. "Because…because…she came here with me.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

I hear the stunned gasps from the audience and I know I've hit a nerve.

"Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," Caesar says, real sadness in his voice. The crowd swells behind him with supportive noises.

"It's not good.".

"Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?"

The cameras have found Katniss with the other tributes. Her face with eyes downcast, blushing prettily, fills the large screens to my left and right and the breath hitches in my chest.

I shake my head. "Not until now."

"Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd shouts their approval, but I stiffen, waiting for Caesar's response. It's one thing to confess your feelings on national television, it's another to have them turned down flat. Katniss can barely stand being in the same room with me, I can't imagine what her reaction to all this will be. It might even ruin the work Haymitch and I put in on this plan.

"Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours."

His last words are barely audible as the roar of the crowd rises up, shaking the foundation of the stage with its intensity. I stand there as the applause lasts almost as long as my interview. I did what I set out to do, possibly more than I'd hoped. The crowd has never reacted like this. The eyes of the audience, and hopefully the sponsors, are fixed on District 12.

But beyond all the applause I feel empty, like I've given a part of myself to this crowd, like I've wrapped something real in the artifice of the Capitol.

As the applause slows, I thank the crowd and walk the short distance to my seat. I don't look at Katniss but as they begin the national anthem, but I see that all the screens show us, standing a few feet apart in our complementary costumes. Unrequited love, doomed before it could start.

After the anthem, the tributes and the sea of assorted staff of mentors, stylists, and escorts make their way to the elevators. The place is so full I can't find Katniss or the others so I squeeze in an elevator with three tributes. No one talks, but they keep giving me speculative side glances. We stop on two floors before I'm alone, watching the people on the ground level get smaller and smaller. I only have a second to wonder about Katniss' reaction when the elevator stops on the District 12 level.

As I'm stepping out, the second elevator dings and the door slides open, revealing a Katniss who is no longer smiling prettily. Before I can say anything, her hands shoots out, shoving me hard in the chest. The push takes me completely by surprise and I stumble, falling into an oversized urn on the ground. The whole thing shatters and shards rip through the flesh of my hands as I try to catch my balance on the ground.

"What was that for?" I say. Oh, I can guess, but I still wasn't expecting this. I'd anticipated some brand of irritation, maybe dodging me for the rest of the night. An overly optimistic part of me hoped that she reciprocated my feelings, at less a little.

"You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" Katniss shouts.

Right then, the elevator opens, and the rest of our team spills out, Haymitch, Effie, Portia, and Cinna—more witnesses for what is sure to be a humiliating exchange. I try to stand up, but my bleeding palms spasm beneath me and I can't get traction on the polished tile floor.

"What's going on?" says Effie in a near panic. "Did you fall?"

"After she shoved me," I say.

Haymitch rounds on Katniss. "Shoved him?"

"This was your idea, wasn't it?" she asks fiercely. "Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?"

"It was my idea," I call out. I think about what happened with the judges and the pig. In this mood, I'm not sure what she'll do, but the last thing she needs to do before the Games is fight with Haymitch. "Haymitch just helped me with it."

Effie and Cinna rush over the broken urn and its shattered artificial flowers to help me up. I grimace as I pull some of the larger shards of pottery out of my hand. They come away dripping blood.

"Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" screams Katniss.

"You _are_ a fool," says Haymitch. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own."

"He made me look weak!" says Katniss.

"He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Haymitch.

"But we're not star-crossed lovers!" she yells.

She sounds so vehement, so disgusted with even the idea of us being together that something inside me collapses and I am suddenly, incredibly tired. It's strangely familiar, this feeling of not being good enough.

Haymitch reaches out, grabbing by the shoulders and pinning her to the wall. It's enough to snap me out of my thoughts and I try to struggle out of Cinna's grip, to get Haymitch off of her, but he holds me fast. "Just relax for a second," he murmurs in my ear.

"Who cares?" asks Haymitch. "It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?"

Katniss pulls out of Haymitch's grip and steps away. Cinna releases me and goes over to her himself. "He's right, Katniss."

The fury has started to drain from her eyes and they lose that sharp silver glint. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid," she says grudgingly.

"No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd know, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia.

I hadn't expected Haymitch and the others to come down so strongly on my side. At least they think it was a good idea.

"She's just worried about her boyfriend." I can hear the bitterness in my voice, but there's nothing I can do to mask it. A bright red blush spreads across Katniss' face and down her neck and I know I'm right. I throw the pieces of bloody urn into a nearby garbage can. The blood's still dripping and a sharp sting has replaced the dull ache.

"I don't have a boyfriend," she says weakly.

"Whatever," I say. I don't believe that for a second. Even if Gale Hawthorne isn't her boyfriend now, she wants him to be. And he will certainly be if she gets home. Like Caesar Flickerman said, who would refuse a victor?

"But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it," I continue. "Besides _you_ didn't say you love _me._ So what does it matter?"

The resentment fades from Katniss' face. "After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" she asks, thoughtfully.

"I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush."

The others all agree with Portia, adding in their observations. And Katniss looks relieved.

The conversation has gotten away from me, going in a direction I didn't expect. I never thought about how Katniss would play it for the cameras. I'd kind of imagined she wouldn't have to do anything and I would do all the work.

Her acting like she loves me, I don't want that, not at all. Her pretending and me…not. What I feel for her, it's real. For her to lie— that would be horrible.

She looks over at me, remorse and resentment warring in her eyes. "I'm sorry I shoved you."

"Doesn't matter," I say. "Although it's technically illegal." Not fighting other tributes before the Games. It's one of the only rules, but it doesn't matter, now, not for me.

"Are your hands okay?" she asks.

I look at my palms. They're both still bleeding, the skin shredded. "They'll be all right," I lie.

Everyone is silent until Haymitch herds them into the dining room. I go too, but my hands start dripping blood onto the white tablecloth. Portia drags me from the table to get my hands bandaged. She gets one of the Avoxes to bring the first aid kit from the kitchen to my room. When we get there, she sits me down on the bed and uses the tweezers to take out the tiny slivers of pottery left in my palms.

"It's true, isn't it?" Portia asks. "What you said in your interview about Katniss."

I nod. What's the use of trying to hide it? "But I didn't expected her to be so angry."

"She was more surprised that anything else and she's not angry, now. Haymitch helped her see that your idea was good for you both, 'the star-crossed lovers from District 12'," Portia says.

She unwraps an antiseptic wipe and swipes over my palms.

"We're not star-crossed lovers," I say softly, repeating Katniss' words from earlier. "And it wasn't my idea to play it that way. I never wanted her to pretend to love me."

"But, that's what the audience will expect," says Portia. "They'll want her to fall in love with you. Unrequited love is good for gaining sympathy at first, but if it lasts too long…it gets painful. No one wants to remember heartbreak."

Her tone draws my eyes to hers. "You too, huh?" I says.

She smiles a little. "Well, if you can admit your crush to the whole world, I can admit mine to you."

"Is it Cinna?" I ask.

"Is it that obvious?" she replies.

"No, it was just a guess," I say. "Does he know?"

"Of course not," says Portia. "Cinna's a genius and an artist and a hundred other things that I'm not. It's better for us to stay friends."

"At least you are friends. That's more than I can say for me and Katniss," I say.

The way things are going, I not sure she won't make me her first target in the arena. I look at my bandaged hands. "Do you think they'll be okay by morning?"

"I wiped them with an antiseptic cream that accelerates healing, but we'll have to see how they look tomorrow," says Portia.

"Any chance they'll postpone the Games until I heal?" I ask.

"None," says Portia. "At least this is only a few cuts. They'll have sent you no matter what condition you're in."

She hooks her arm around mine and pulls me to my feet. "Come on, let's go get some food with those oblivious objects of our affections."

Dinner is a subdued occasion tonight. The argument between Katniss and me has dampened any excitement over our interview successes. The silence is punctuated only by murmurs of approval for the food.

After dinner, we watch the replay of the interviews. From their applause, the crowd liked Katniss and found the first half of my interview entertaining, but it's clear that they have latched on to our supposed love story, the audience gasping and clucking in sympathy as talk, even Caesar Flickerman appears genuinely choked up. We won't have to fight for camera time in the arena, sponsors will see enough of us to get attached, and hopefully be willing to part with some of their money.

Then the recap is over and it's time to say our goodbyes.

We'll still have our stylists with us until the very last minute. They'll travel with us to the spot where we will enter the arena. But this will be our final goodbye to Effie and Haymitch. Both of them will be staying in the Capitol at the Games Headquarters to negotiate sponsorships and gifts for us. Or at least they will if our plan is successful.

Before dawn we will get up and prepare to travel to the arena, which maybe many miles away from the Capitol, built in some depopulated area unreachable by all except the Gamemakers.

The Games will start at ten in the morning so the Capitol citizens have time to wake up and enjoy it on their giant screens while throwing Hunger Games parties, betting on our chances of survival after the initial fighting narrows the field.

Effie gathers both of us to her side and squeezes our hands. It hurts my damaged palms, but I don't complain. "You two have been the best tributes I have ever had the privilege to escort," she says with tears in her eyes. "I wish you both the very best in the arena."

In the very best case, only one of us will ever see her again, but the sentiment is there so we both nod. Then, in true Effie fashion, she says something utterly unsentimental, "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I finally get promoted to a decent district next year!"

Then she kisses both of us on the cheek and rushes from the room, holding a handkerchief delicately to her eyes. That leaves us standing with Haymitch. After almost twenty-five years of doing this, we won't get any tears or hugs from him. He crosses his arms over his chest, leans back against the wall, and looks us over.

"Any final words of advice?" I ask after several long seconds of silence.

"When the gong sounds, get the hell out of there. You're neither of you up to the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water," he says. "Got it?"

Why would he say that? Haymitch knows I have to meet up with the Careers at the Cornucopia. It has to be for Katniss' benefit. What else could it be? Telling her to clear out and me to stay would make her suspicious.

"And after that?" Katniss asks.

Haymitch shrugs. "Stay alive."

It's the same advice he gave us that day on the train, stinking drunk and laughing, that made me knock the drink from his hand—was that just six days ago? He's not laughing now. I don't think I've ever seen him this serious.

I realize I misjudged Haymitch on the train, he's done his best to prepare us and really, what other advice can he give? We both nod and Haymitch walks away just like that.

Portia grabs me to readjust my bandages and I see Katniss slip off to her room. It's for the best, I'm not sure what I want to say to her.

I take one last shower in the now infamous rose scented bathroom and it does still smell faintly of the pink foam. I pull on a pair of pajamas, but instead of heading to bed like I'd planned, I find myself walking up the short staircase to the roof, out into the night air that turns icy on my face and shower wet hair.

I spend a long time in the gardens where Katniss told me about the redheaded Avox, with the artificial lights of the surrounding building illuminate my steps. I wander through the flower beds, listening to the shifting melody of the wind chimes, memorizing their simple beauty.

The tiled walkway leads me to a ledge where I look down on crowds of people walking around, dancing, and singing. From this far overhead, the clash of bright colors looks like a rainbow melted in the street. I take a few deep breaths of the crisp air. It's not as fresh as the air back home, but these breathes are some of the last ones I'll take in relative freedom. I can't spend this last night in my airless room.

What will tonight be like for my family? Will they be worried or have they already gone back to their everyday lives, already started to forget about me? I can almost hope they're anxious and that I'm not all alone.

At least it would mean they cared that I was gone.

A shout goes up in the distance and the words "Happy Hunger Games," are projected high above the Training Center. The words spin twice before erupting into streams of stars.

So that's what they're celebrating down there. It's the pre-Games festivities. But the best is yet to come, the first day is always the bloodiest.

In less than twelve hours I could be dead, shipped home in a ply wood box in less than twenty-four. Another nameless dead tribute. Eventually victors are forgotten, fading into history as new ones replace them, but the losing tributes—it's like they never existed at all. Even back home, families don't talk about their lost children.

Fallen tributes become ghosts.

And what will it be for? A rebellion that ended before my grandfather was born? That's the excuse of the Capitol, but the people celebrating in the streets below couldn't care less about the dark days. They're all having too much fun.

"You should be getting some sleep," Katniss says behind me.

Her voice gives me a start. I hadn't heard her approach at all, surrounded as I was by the noise of the crowds and my own angry thoughts. If this were tomorrow in the arena and she had even the slightest desire to kill me, I would be dead. I give my head a little shake.

"I didn't want to miss the party. It's for us, after all," I tell her. She walks up to the rail next to me and looks down at the wild crowds below us. She's dress in a long nightgown, her dark hair hanging loose and long down her back, bare feet poking out beneath the gown. In the pale light I can barely make out the tiny orange and yellow flames painted on each toenail. It's utterly feminine and not her at all. Or maybe it is. I have to remind myself that we've only known each other a single week. Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that, even if I'd lived to be a hundred, I wouldn't be able to guess the thoughts of Katniss Everdeen.

"Are they in costumes?" she asks squinting down at them.

"Who could tell?" I say. "With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Couldn't sleep, either?"

"Couldn't turn my mind off," she says.

"Thinking about your family?" I guess. My family can take care of themselves and they're on my mind. Katniss' family relies on her to eat, to live. They could be starving now.

"No," she says, embarrassment in her voice. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course."

She looks down at my hands. They're still bandaged and hopefully healing because they itch like crazy.

"I really am sorry about your hands," she says.

"It doesn't matter Katniss," I say, repeating my answer. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway."

"That's no way to be thinking," Katniss says.

"Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and…." I can't think of a way to explain it to her and this might be the last chance I have. Haymitch has made it clear that he doesn't want Katniss in on our plans for the arena. It gives me an out, he says, if I change my mind and Katniss wouldn't be relying on help that never comes.

But I can give her a clue. More than that, I want her to understand what I'm trying to do, to see it for what it is, but my words are stuck in my throat, useless as they always are around her.

And what?" she asks.

"I don't know how to say it exactly. Only…I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" I ask her.

She shakes her head in confusion, so I try again. "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not."

She bites her lip. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" she asks.

I think about that for a moment. "No, when the times comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else," I say slowly. "I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to… to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games."

"But you're not. None of us are. That's how the Games work," says Katniss.

"Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," I tell her. "Don't you see?"

How can she not see? She's already done it once at the reaping. They're designed to show us our helplessness, but she proved them wrong by volunteering for her sister. She didn't play by their rules. She showed them that she was still a person. How can she be blind to that?

"A little. Only…no offense, but who cares, Peeta?" she says.

I turn to look at her. "I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" I say, more intensely than I mean.

She takes a step back. "Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive."

I'm sure all twenty-four tributes would love to take that advice, but only one tribute will be able to. "Okay," I answer. And since we're quoting Haymitch now, I add, "Thanks for the tip, sweetheart."

When I use Haymitch's pet name for her, those angry gray eyes blaze into mine and she takes a step forward. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve."

I shrug. "Wouldn't surprise me if you do. Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"

"Count on it," Katniss says. Then she turns around and leaves the roof, slamming the door as she goes.

"Well, that was a bust," I say out loud to the empty air.

I end up going back to my room after all. My conversation with Katniss destroyed whatever calm the roof held for me. I spend the rest of the night lying in bed, replaying our conversation in my head, as the night slips into day.

Portia comes to get me just as the eastern sky turns a hazy purple. She hands me a gray tunic and pants and I put them on, the coarse fabric chaffing my skin. It reminds me of what the Avoxes wear and I'm glad it not what I'll wear in the Games. Those clothes will be a secret until we get to the prep area underneath the arena where all tributes will be issued the same uniform. Knowing what the clothing is like could reveal too many secrets about the arena. Heavy parkas might mean a frozen tundra, light colored clothes, a desert.

After I dress in the plain clothing, Portia checks my bandaged hands. Most of the cuts have sealed over, but both hands are still red and raw. Portia applies more of the antiseptic and wraps them again. Then she leads me to the roof where a hovercraft waits. I look for Katniss and Cinna, but they're nowhere to be seen. Then I remember that tributes enter the arena alone and they must have their own hovercraft, are even possibly already at the arena site.

A ladder extends from the hovercraft, the rungs clatter down in front of me. I step up onto the first rung and some sort of current freezes me to the ladder as it is lifted up, even my eyes are fixed in place, looking up as the hovercraft looms closer. A man strides over to me, the tails of his lab coat beating against his knees, a long needle posed in his hand. It's a tracker he explains, sticking the needle into my arm while I'm still frozen. This is the way the Gamemakers track you in the arena. It's also tracks your vitals so they know if you're still alive.

Wouldn't want to lose any of us.

After the tracker is put in place, the ladder releases me and drops down to bring Portia up. The rooftop recedes from view and the tallest buildings of the Capitol disappear. The man in the lab coat disappears as well, replaced by one of the silent servants who lead us to a table where we have breakfast on the hovercraft. We sit at a table between two large windows as the hovercraft cleaves through the clouds, leaving the Capitol and flying beyond into empty barren lands.

I eat slowly, savoring the succulent food because it may be my last chance at a decent meal, there's no telling what I'll get in the arena. Portia doesn't eat, she keeps pushing plates in front of me, not saying much, so I keep eating and watching the sunrise.

Out the east window, the clouds are an orangey-red, melting away the dusky blue of night. The light casts shadows into the craft, jagged orange squares that bounce through the window, stretch overhead and disappear as the sun climbs higher.

After about half an hour of flight, the windows blackout, meaning we must be near the arena—its location another closely guarded secret of the Gamemakers. Fifteen minutes later, the hovercraft stops and Portia and I are deposited deep underground in the catacombs, a long series of darken tunnels scattered beneath the arena.

Here, each tribute has a preparation room. Katniss and Cinna are probably already somewhere in this maze getting ready. I wish I could see Cinna again, but I know I'll be seeing Katniss soon enough. If I've kept track of the time, it'll be in about one hour.

Every sound is amplified in these subterranean caverns as I follow Portia to my room, our footsteps echoing loudly against the stone floor, hers the click of high heels, mine a dull thud.

We open the door to yet another room marked 12b and the first thing I notice is the sharp chemical smell of fresh paint. Each arena is built in a different location, so everything here is brand new. I will be the only tribute to ever use this room. By next year, this location will be part of the National Archive of Arenas, preserved for future generations. They'll give tours. Add a mannequin of me with a short biography and video recap of my death.

The clothing for the arena is waiting in a package on one of the low tables scattered around the room. Portia helps me dress in the underwear, tan pants, and light green shirt they have given us. Then she pulls out the accessories, a thick brown belt and tall leather boots that slide on over tight socks. She tops all this with a thin, hooded black jacket.

"And I also have these," Portia says. She pulls out a pair of fingerless black gloves in a stretchy material, the palms cover with small plastic beading for grip. The fingers are cut out at the second knuckle.

"Since you don't have a district token, I requested these for your hands last night," says Portia. "I almost didn't get them. The leader of the review board was annoyed when I called him at the last minute, but he gave in. They've been tough this year. Katniss almost didn't get her token either. Some said that her little pin could be used as a weapon, but they cleared it, too."

Every tribute is allowed a token, one extra thing from home to take into the arena as long it isn't deadly. Katniss did have some kind of pin on the train after the reaping. It was a gold circle, expensive looking for a girl from the Seam. Perhaps her mother give it to her. I hadn't thought about getting a token after the reaping. I'm not sure what I would have wanted anyway, and it's a good thing now I hadn't.

I think of the cookies I left on the train and I feel a pang of loneliness.

Portia slipped the gloves on over the bandages. "These should keep the bandages in place without restricting movement. Are they comfortable? And everything else. Is it comfortable?"

I wiggle my hands around and stomp around in the boots, glad that they aren't stiff or pinching. The soles have good traction. "They're great. Everything's great." I hold my arms out and turn in a circle. "So, what do you think? About the arena."

"Somewhere with warm days and cool nights. Maybe some rain. Your jacket's waterproof and reflects body heat," she says.

After that, there's nothing to do but wait. We sit on the couch provided, not talking. At one point, they bring in food, but I couldn't eat again. Since the reaping I've felt a far way sort of anxiety, constant but possible to ignore for long stretches of time. Now, under the arena, that anxiety has finally come into sharp focus, snaking its way into my chest where it sits, heavy and solid.

We don't have long to wait before a female voice announces it's time to prepare for launch. Portia and I walk over to the circular metal ring in the center of the room that raises the tribute up into the arena. I've avoided looking at the gleaming platform since I got here, but now it's time to stand on top of it.

Portia's tattooed hands flutter around me, straightening my jacket, brushing off invisible lint. Then she stops and grips my shoulders.

"Haymitch told me what you plan to do for Katniss," she says. "I want you to know, no matter what happens, you will always be a victor to me."

Thanks, Portia. For everything," I manage to say. I thank her, not for the clothes, but for being a kind face, a real person. I give her a tight hug.

A glass tube starts lowering around me, cutting me off from Portia. I look at her one last time and see tears trickle down her cheeks as the tube ascends into darkness.

A thousand lifetimes pass while I'm enclosed in the glass cylinder rising to the surface. Every choice, every chance that could have prevented this moment flashes through my mind. But none of those thing happened. This did.

Then the metal plate is pushing me out into bright sunlight, blinding me, but I hear birds calling out in alarm as the tributes invade their sanctuary. When my eyes adjust to the change, I make a quick glance to my left and right. Behind the tribute to my left I can make out trees in the distance. To my right, there is a lake. The arena is a forest.

The voice of the announcer of the Games, Claudius Templesmith, rings throughout the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, let the seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"

Twenty-four of us stand in a large flat field surrounding the Cornucopia, a large golden structure shaped like a curved horn. Each year, the twenty foot high mouth of the Cornucopia is filled to the brim with weapons, food, medicine, and supplies. Everything a tribute needs to survive, that is, if you're strong enough to take it.

We have to wait one minute on our metal plates before we can move. Sixty long seconds. Moving before the gong strikes brings instant death, landmines beneath the metal plates are triggered to explode. Someone moves now and I'd only have to worry about twenty-two people trying to kill me. Twenty-one if I don't count Katniss, but that's not certain.

I see her now, five tributes to my left, her eyes fixed on the Cornucopia. I follow her gaze and something silver catches in the light. It's a bow and a quiver of arrows high atop of a stack of tightly rolled blankets. It's deep in the mouth of the Cornucopia, impossible to grab and get away with before someone else gets there. It might be worth it. The bow is her weapon, and despite what Haymitch said, if she gets to it, she might be able to shoot her way out of any problem.

But then I see him, Cato, the brutish tribute from District 2, the giant who already brags about his kills. He's two tributes to her left and staring her way, adjusting his stance to match hers, ready to run when she does.

And I don't think he's looking to give her boost up to the bow.

Haymitch was right, Cato has marked Katniss for the kill and he plans to do it as soon as the gong sounds. If she goes for the bow, if she does anything but get out of here, she's dead. Cato won't chase her away from the Cornucopia, not without getting a weapon first. She'll have time to get away. Find cover and water like Haymitch said. Maybe snag one of the safer options laying nearby on the ground.

Spread at intervals around the Cornucopia are lesser prizes. The farther they are from the Cornucopia, the lesser their value— backpacks that might have anything or nothing in them, plastic containers of food, right next to me is a thin sleeping bag.

I try to catch her eye, but she's a good distance away, maybe too far away to notice me. I'd almost given up when she finally looks in my direction. I shake my head and I can only hope she understands, that she's also seen Cato because, at that moment, the gong sounds.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Scenes like this aren't supposed to happen under perfect blue skies. All around me, children lie dead or dying, painting the ground crimson, the coppery wet scent of blood flooding the air. I avoid looking at the dead eyes forever staring at that perfect blue sky and weave my way around the corpses to the Cornucopia. By and large, the clean kills are the handiwork of the Careers, brutal and efficient. The less fortunate lie wounded, suffering from haphazard cuts and blows, drowning in their own blood. A literal bloodbath. They are the victims of the inexperienced, the ordinary tributes who still managed to turn lethal as soon as the gong sounded.

I make it through the initial fighting unchallenged. An eight in training scares away the weaker tributes without threatening the stronger ones.

It's the gift of mediocrity.

The Career Tributes have ignored me completely, three are sprawled around the mouth of the Cornucopia shifting through their spoils, laughing and joking. The others check the bodies, making sure they're really dead, killing those who aren't.

"Well, well, well, look who's come to grace us with his presence," Cato says as I walk into view, he's leaning against the curved side of the Cornucopia, looking as casual as if he were at a picnic, except for the sword in his right hand. "It's…Lover Boy."

His condescending nickname for me raises the hairs on the back of my neck. There's malice behind the words. I don't say anything, just watch the hand that practices sword swings, the blade cleaving through the air with a sharp whistle.

"Well, Lover Boy, I've been thinking about our alliance," says Cato. "You see, seven's too big a number. I'm thinking there's not a place for you in my alliance."

With sudden clarity I know Haymitch was trying to warn me when he told both of us to get away from the Cornucopia. He may have suspected something like this, thought better of his earlier advice. He said they were trying to separate us. What better way to separate us than to kill me? I scan the area for an escape route but the others have circled around, blocking me in. They must have planned this. A last act of Cornucopia carnage. Perfect for the cameras.

Cato couldn't care less about the number, it's an excuse to kill me, but it's the only idea my mind latches onto. "I think seven's a good number," I say, trying for a disinterested tone. "Heard somewhere it's lucky."

"Nah, it's odd," says Cato, taking a lazy swing with his sword. "I've never liked odd numbers and it looks to me like you're the odd man out."

Pelles gives a derisive snort. "Are you going to get him or are you going to stand here talking all day?"

"If you want Lover Boy, you can have him," says Cato. "I'm waiting for his little sweetheart."

"I wouldn't say that if you do find her," I say. "She doesn't like being called that."

"I'm sure she won't like anything I've got planned for her," says Cato. "Where is she? Out in the forest? Hiding?"

I shrug. "Probably. I told her we would meet up after I got some supplies from the Cornucopia. I still can't believe she bought what I said during the interview. Pathetic. I just wanted to find out how she got that eleven."

Cato stops swinging his sword, letting his arm fall to his side. Yes, that's the right string to pull his attention. But is it enough to take his mind off killing me? Without me here, there's nothing stopping these predators from hunting her down. And they will, I have no doubts about that.

"And did you? Find out her secret?" Cato asks.

"Not so fast," I say. "What were you saying about the alliance?"

"That's enough," Pelles says. "He's lying, probably doesn't know anything."

Pelles isn't a giant like Cato, but he's powerfully built, strong from hauling in fish in District 4, no doubt. He pulls a straight bladed knife from his waistband, long and thin, flipping the knife from hand to hand with a flourish, playing in up for the cameras. After all, the Hunger Games are part showmanship.

The others hang back, their expressions ranging from expectant to disinterested. Cato looks annoyed, but he's not going to stop Pelles. I can't go anywhere. Negotiating won't work. The Careers and the audience will see it as a weakness, an unforgivable sin. My only option is to fight.

Instinct kicks in and I move into a wrestling stance—muscles tense, knees bent, body angled away from him. His knife slashes out. I dodge out of the way and the knife misses me by inches.

The others melt into the scenery, there but not there, my whole attention focused on Pelles. Focused on his knife as it lashes out, the movement of his feet, the sweat pouring off his blunt face. He attacks again and again, jabbing with the knife. I react, evading his stabs, wishing I'd grabbed a weapon when I had the chance. We shift round the tight circle the Careers have made. I can feel myself lagging, my breath comes out in pants, the knife comes closer and closer to cutting me each time, but I wait for my opening. It comes when I see him start to tire, his knife strikes less precise.

The next time his knife thrusts toward me, I block the blow with my arm. The blade bites into my forearm, but I don't stop. I twist his arm behind his back, rotating hard until he drops the knife.

Pelles struggled against my hold, the motion rubbing against my still healing hands. The slippery fabric of his jacket isn't helping and I know I can't keep this up for long. The moment my grip slips, he reacts, sending me flying over his shoulder. I catch a glimpse of that flawless sky before I'm skidding across the hard packed ground, the air gone from my lungs, the gritty taste of dirt filling my mouth.

I'm only down for a second, but it's long enough for Pelles to find the knife. He rushes toward me and one thought reaches me through the pain—Katniss won't able to face these Careers alone.

Pelles bears down to deliver the strike that will kill me. _Time to put Haymitch's advice to the test._ _Time to stay alive. _With one final burst of energy, I grab the hand with the knife and using his own momentum, I drive the blade deep into Pelles' thigh. The boy lets out a howl of shocked pain, ripping the knife from his flesh and the wound jets blood.

I scramble away from him, getting to my feet. The Careers guffaw. "Looks like Lover Boy isn't so useless after all," I hear Cato say.

The knife must have found a main artery because every beat of his heart streams blood. He's hobbling toward the mouth of the Cornucopia when an arrow slams into his leg, causing him to buckle, a second finds his shoulder, followed by one to his neck. He collapses in a heap.

I hear a sharp intake of breath and look over at the rest of the Careers. The girl tribute from District 1, Glimmer, holds the silver bow and arrows from the Cornucopia. Pelles' District 4 partner, Kai, stares at her. Glimmer slings the bow over her shoulder.

"Ally or not, with a wound like that, he was dead weight," say Glimmer. "I did us a favor."

I stare disbelieving at the crumpled figure on the ground. Pelles won't be counted as my kill. Whoever strikes the fatal blow is the one tallied into the Capitol's complex betting system, part of the statistics of each tribute, but that doesn't mean I didn't kill him, that he didn't die because of me.

I bend down and pick up the knife still covered with Pelles' blood all the way to the hilt. The sight turns my stomach, but I put on the mask of casual brutality that the Careers so easily wear. I wave it toward Cato and the others.

"Seems like you have an opening in the alliance after all," I say.

Cato's eyes narrow, but he remains quiet. He turns around and walks toward the lake that sits several hundred yards from the Cornucopia. The adrenaline seeps from my veins and my heart rate begins to return to normal. They aren't going to kill me yet. The rest of us follow him away from the bodies.

Three hovercrafts appear out of the blue, noiseless shadows in the sky. Silently, they use cranes to lift the bodies from the arena, wide claws lowering from the belly of the hovercrafts to gather the dead. They lift up Pelles first, the three arrows still protruding from his body. Each body takes no more than a few seconds to recover, zipping them up into the sky, the Games over and done for them.

Normally, after the bodies are collected at the bloodbath, the Gamemakers begin firing cannons to announce the death toll. Because there are so many deaths in the first few hours, they wait to announce them to save time. We stay where we are listening, but they don't fire the cannons.

Something's wrong. The Gamemakers must not think the fighting is over. The fear that had begun to dissipate roars back to life. I scan the tree line, the patchwork field of tall grasses across from it, even the lake looking for a threat. There's nothing. Is it the Careers? Do they have something else planned? No, they look just as confused as I am.

Then I see it.

Lying about thirty feet from the Cornucopia is one of the bodies. I think it's the boy from District 3. Why would they leave him behind? The boy's covered in blood, but maybe he's not dead yet.

Cato elbows Clove and they lead the others over to the body. I trail behind. I didn't feel it while I was fighting, but my ankle's twisted. My whole body aches, but I'm grateful for the pain. It means I'm still alive.

Cato rears back to give the body a kick when it jumps up, eyes wild. Aside from the blood, the boy doesn't seem hurt. I'm confused for a moment then I get it. He must have pretended to be dead, hiding in plain sight among the bodies. Later, he could have crept away with some of the best supplies, but the Gamemakers took away his cover, leaving him exposed.

The Careers live up to their Wolf Pack reputation, surrounding this boy like they surrounded me earlier. The boy even looks like a hounded rabbit with his lean face and terrified dark eyes.

"Come here, Lover Boy. I've got a job for you," says Cato. "Stick him."

He pulls a short sword from his belt and offers the hilt to me. "You can even use my sword."

I walk up to him, a self-satisfied smile plastered on his face. It's a test. And most likely revenge for what I said earlier. I can't say no unless I want to break the alliance and he knows it. And I'm still expendable. I'm the easiest way to Katniss, but not the only way. The Gamemakers won't let her hide for long. No skill could make her a match for all of them.

I take the sword from him, having to use both my hands. It's heavier than it looks. The insignia of the Capitol is engraved into the hilt. The pack makes a tight opening so I can enter. The boy from District 3 is curled in a shaking ball, his head buried in his knees.

I take another step forward and the boy convulses even deeper into himself, he's not even going to try. I can't stop my breathing from coming out in sharp pants. Everything seemed clearer, easier last night on the roof with Katniss. The line between myself and Capitol monster was certain. It was simple—die helping Katniss. But what if helping Katniss means killing some innocent kid? Here, in this world of horrors, where every law of decency is shattered, what is the right choice? I don't know, but I do know that the person I was yesterday, the real me, would never hurt this boy.

I give a convincing lunge toward him, weapon raised, then I stop as if struck by a thought.

"That was clever, District Three. Pretending to be dead," I say. "They looked through the bodies. How come we didn't find you before?"

He peeks up at me, his eyebrows drawn together. "I…I hid under the boy from District 5," he says.

The boy from District 5, a tall boy, was one of the first tributes to die, a victim of Clove's flying knives.

I let my eyebrows rise, "Resourceful, too."

"Too bad it didn't work," sneers Clove.

"But it would have," I say. "If it wasn't for the Gamemakers, none of us would have figured it out."

"Just kill him, Lover Boy," Cato says. "Unless you want out of the alliance."

"I'll kill him," I say. "But what if he has other ideas? They might be worth keeping him alive."

The others look to Cato for direction, but they're softening, leaning toward my suggestion. Cato crosses his arms across his chest and glares. This is dangerous. I don't need Cato to feel his position is threatened. I don't want him thinking too hard about what I'm doing.

"It's your choice," I say.

Cato holds up his hands, "Find out what he's got."

I level the sword at the boy's neck. "You've got ten seconds to say something worth keeping you alive. One, two…" I continue the countdown slowly, willing him to come up with something, anything. Sweat burns the cuts in my palms and I have to force myself to keep the sword steady.

I make it to eight before he blurts out, "Landmines!"

"What," I say.

"I can reactivate the landmines under the…the…metal plates," he says. "Move them and use them as weapons."

District Three has factories, machines…and explosives. It's his district's specialty. I've never seen the landmines used during the Games. I'm sure no one has ever thought about doing it.

"What are we supposed to do with landmines?" Marvel asks. "Leave them in the forest and hope somebody steps on them?"

The boy from Three shallows hard. "You can set traps. Leave some food as bait. Or…or you could use it to protect the supplies. Set the landmines up so only you can get to the stuff. Anybody else who gets close will be blown to bits."

The Careers like this. Their one weakness is keeping the stockpile safe while they're hunting down other tributes. Losing control of the supplies tips the advantage towards the other districts. Like a few years ago when a mudslide destroyed the food and a girl named Johanna Mason from District 7 won.

"How long would that take?" asks Clove.

"Three or four days," the boy says. "But I'd have to stay here to keep it working."

I suppress a smile. He's not so ready to die, after all. He may have bought himself a few more days.

Clove turns to Cato. "It's a good plan."

"If it works," says Cato.

"And if it doesn't, we can kill him in three or four days," I say. "What difference does it make?"

At that moment, the cannons that announce the tribute deaths boom out. I guess the Gamemakers like my idea. I count the number of the cannons. Eleven tributes dead, thirteen still alive.

We spend the next hour sorting the food and weapons, piling them up about 90 feet from the lake where we set up camp. That's the distance, the boy from District 3, whose name is Feechee, says will be safe from the landmines.

Afterward, the Careers crack open several crates of food, including refrigerated crates that contain rosy hunks of fresh meat wrapped in sterile plastic. It doesn't tempt me, reminding me of the blood still on the ground. This doesn't stop the Careers, they try to build a fire and make every rookie mistake. None of them spent much time at any of the survival stations during training and it shows.

I grab a couple of the packaged meals and head over to where Feechee is fiddling with some wire. Since the bloodbath, he has been dashing around checking the metal plates, unscrewing various panels with a screwdriver from the stockpile.

"Is it safe?" I ask. I gesture to all the dismantled parts littering the ground.

He jumps at my voice before looking up. "Perfectly."

"I thought you might be hungry." I hold up the two plastic containers. "These say turkey." I toss the square package to him and sit down on the ground.

I open the pack to reveal several smaller packets and a folded plastic fork. "Somehow this doesn't look as good as the Capitol food."

Feechee makes a face. "It's not. Most of the food in District Three comes like this." He takes the largest of the packets and reaches for his canister filled with the lake water we purified with iodine drops. He pours about a cup of water into the packet. "You add water to the heater pack and pile the other packets back in. Wait a few minutes then the food's done."

I repeat his actions with my food. After about five minutes, the plastic food bags turn from clear to red indicating the food is ready. The turkey's not half bad, but after days of eating the best food Panem has to offer, it's definitely a downgrade. We both eat in silence as the sun goes down. The lake is so clear that it acts as a mirror, creating a perfect reflection of the reds and oranges of sunset.

"You say you eat this all the time in District Three?" I ask.

"Not this, exactly, but very similar. It's inexpensive and it doesn't go bad. Plus, nobody has time to cook after working in the factories seven days a week."

"When do you rest?" I ask. Even the coal mines in District 12 are closed one day a week.

"At night. At least the adults with day shifts do. Kids over fourteen work the night shift and go half days to school," he says.

"It looks like all that work paid off, today. What you learned saved your life," I say.

"Thank you, for what you did early," says Feechee. "The others…they would have killed me. You, at least, gave me a chance."

I have to remind myself that the audience will hear every word I say. Unless another tribute is somewhere dying or fighting off a wild animal, this conversation is being aired across Panem. Why would I spare a weaker tribute? There are no real rules in the Games, but one of the unspoken ones is kill or be killed and I broke it. How will sponsors see that?

"I did what was best for the alliance," I say.

Marvel walks up eating a hunk of meat impaled on a stick. They must have gotten the fire up after all. "Cato says we're going hunting right after the death recap, so pick a weapon. District Three's staying here to work on the landmines." He throws Feechee a flashlight. "Use this."

I still have the knife I used in the fight with Pelles strapped into my belt. I go to the pile of weapons and select a second knife. This one's larger and serrated, a hunting knife. I also take care of my injuries, finding the first aid kits and slather antiseptic on the cut on my hands and then bandaging everything. An infection is the last thing I need.

I make it to the Career's fire as the anthem plays and the seal of the Capitol is projected in the sky, the same way the words "Happy Hunger Games" were projected above the Training Center last night. I sit on one of the empty crates they didn't use for firewood.

The sky lights up with the image of the first dead tribute, it's in order by district so Feechee's District 3 partner is first. Her head shot and district number flashes once before disappearing. Just her district number, they don't even bother to show our names. I look over at him, to gauge his reaction, but he hasn't stopped tinkering with the metal plates.

Pelles image is next, his face high in the sky above our heads, the first Career tribute to die. For us in the arena, they show the same head shots they used to report our training scores, but at home they're seeing a play-by-play recap of each death. It's possible the recap just shows Glimmer's arrow shots, but more than likely my family is now watching me stab Pelles.

I don't know how I should feel about that or their feelings about me teaming up with the Careers. Everyone I know must hate me, think of me as a coward, a traitor to our district and they may never learn any different. But I knew that before and I was still willing to risk this plan. Maybe Haymitch will tell them later.

Cato and the others are clapping and taking bows for each of their kills. Glimmer takes hers for Pelles, glancing over at me with smugness. Does she think I want credit for any of this?

They're moving on to show the boy from District 5, the one Feechee hid underneath. Districts 6 and 7 each loss both of their tributes. Then it's the boy from 8. Both tributes from 9. The final death is the girl from District 10, then the anthem plays again and the sky goes dark. Both tributes from District 12 survived the first day. I knew Katniss was alive, but the fear that I missed something has lived in the back of my mind all day.

"Now to hunt the rest down!" Cato says. "Let's get going." He pulls out a pair of night vision googles from the supplies and hands a second pair to Clove. "Everyone else get flashlights and torches."

I pull one of the long shards of wood from the fire and Kai grabs another. I haven't heard her say anything since Pelles was killed. She still seems dazed, but as a Career, she is dangerous. I wouldn't put it past her to poison me in my sleep, poison seems like her kind of weapon.

"Let's go see if we can find little miss girl on fire," Glimmer says choosing a torch as well. "See if she likes real flames."

I shrug. "I'm a baker's son. I'm used to burning things."

At night, the forest is a dark and sinister place teeming with sounds made by unseen, scurrying animals. And some of those animals might be armed with more than claws and teeth—knives and spears were abundant at the Cornucopia this year. We follow the stream that feeds the lake for a while before branching off into the forest.

I'm not the only one unfamiliar with the forest. The others seem on edge as well, jerking around, weapons trained on invisible threats.

We are not a quiet group and none of the other tributes stumble into our path. The greater danger comes from the tributes in my alliance, an arrangement that by definition can only be temporary. And I expect it to be broken at any moment. Cato is the nominal leader, but they all argue constantly and jostle for control. I trail behind, not trusting the others, one of my hands resting on the knife in my belt, the other holding the torch above my head.

It's about one or two hours before dawn when Kai calls us over to look at something. The torch light reveals a circlet of wire held in place by saplings on either side.

"It's some kind of trap," Kai says.

"It's a snare," says Cato.

The trainer at the knot-station showed us several snares during our session, but they were all meant to catch human prey. This small and balanced trap, tied by clever fingers, is made for catching animals. Only one person in the arena would have stopped to set a trap like this.

Without a doubt, Katniss Everdeen made this snare.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Cato turns to me, his eyes narrowing into slits. The torches light crisscrosses his face, morphing him into something feral, a grotesque mutt made by the Capitol. "I saw you and her making snares during training. Is this hers?"

I stoop to examine the snare, taking a second to breathe against the uneven pounding in my heart, but I don't have to look hard. Every meticulous detail of the snare proclaims its maker. "I don't know. Anyone who practiced at that station could have made it."

"But do you think it could be hers?" asks Clove.

"Katniss doesn't know much about making snares," I say. This lie is a gamble. Both our lives depends on them believing me right now. And the audience, too. Sponsors need to be watching, glued to their seats. They know that Katniss made this snare, but do_ I_ know it? The commentators are probably analyzing it right now, sitting in an air conditioned rooming, giving a recap of everything they know about us.

"It took her an hour to get _one _right during training," I continue. "Besides, I don't think she got away from the Cornucopia with the supplies to make this."

"Oh, she got away with supplies, all right," says Clove. "She and that boy from District Nine were fighting over a backpack. I got him, but she got away."

"You never miss," Cato drawls. "Losing your edge?"

Clove jerks her chin back to look up at him. "I didn't miss. The knife would've killed her, but it got stuck in the backpack. She was lucky."

If she dodged Clove, more than lucky. Clove has the same kind of accuracy with a knife that Katniss has with a bow. Her flying knives killed more tributes today than anything else. I have to work hard to keep the surprise out of my face, to look only mildly interested.

This is the first I've heard about the boy from District 9. I wanted to keep my eye on her, but in those first moments after the gong she disappeared completely and I could only hope she's gotten away clean. Katniss should have gotten out of there immediately, not fight some tribute over a backpack.

But I will admit I'm relieved Katniss isn't out here with nothing. She has supplies, at least some wire and a backpack. If she's found water like Haymitch said, it's a good start.

"I think we should leave someone here," says Marvel. "Stake the place out."

_No_. I can't let them stay here, Katniss might come back anytime, might even still be around. I steal a few quick glances up at the trees. It's dark and I can't make anyone out, but that doesn't mean she isn't there.

"What if Thresh is the one setting snares?" I say. "Anyone want to meet up with him alone in the dark?"

Thresh ignored everyone during training, practiced very little, said next to nothing, but he still managed to tie Cato with a training score of ten. No one, not even Cato, wants to face that kind of power alone.

"It's not Thresh," says Glimmer. "I saw him go over into the field on the other side of the arena."

So that's why nobody suggested going into that part of the arena. Along with the shoulder high multicolored grasses that could house hidden traps and poisonous snakes, Thresh has also taken refuge there.

"And he couldn't have circled back?" I ask. "If you want to find Katniss before sunrise, we need to keep moving."

"I don't see why everyone's so obsessed with her," says Glimmer.

"It's because of that score," says Clove. "Some people can't let it go."

"Will all of you shut up," says Cato. "It doesn't matter who set the snare. I'm not going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs until they decide to show up."

"What's that," says Kai pointing into the distance. It's a campfire burning in the dark so bright I can almost feel its warmth. Cato shares a triumphant look with Clove before signaling for us to follow and all six of us break into a run.

It isn't Katniss, it can't be. She's a hunter. She knows better. She wouldn't light a campfire in the dark. Not in a million years. She's smarter than that. She has to be. She has to be. I repeat these things to myself, the words falling into the rhythm of my feet pounding through the underbrush as I try to keep up with the others.

We catch her dozing by the fire, her chin tucked into her chest. It isn't Katniss. It's a young girl, no more than thirteen, with sandy hair and wide set hazel eyes. I don't know her name, can't recall which district she's from. She wakes, eyes sharp with fear as we pile into the clearing. She scrambles up to run, but backs right into the trunk of a tree and by then it's too late.

"Please, don't," she begs, pressing her body as far as she can into the tree, her eyes darting around to each of us, looking for mercy. Something in my face must have given me away because her next plea is directed to me.

"Help me. Please, you don't have to do this."

I look away, close my eyes and wish I could close my eyes to her pleading. I can't risk it. Not this time. I stand there, trying my best to turn off the pity inside me. I want to stop what's about to happen, find another way, but I do nothing. A raw burn fills the back of my throat and I swallow against it.

"But that's the Games," drawls Cato. "I'll show you how it's done." He pulls out his sword, the same one he lent me earlier, and drives it into her stomach up to the hilt. The blow doesn't kill her and the pleas just turn to strangled screams.

So Cato stabs her a second time. This time, the tormented screams are silenced.

Another round of congratulations go up among the Careers. Several thump Cato on the back, laughing loudly.

"Twelve down and eleven to go!" Cato says. This gets enthusiastic hoots. They must not realize this means we're all on Cato's kill list.

The scene around me, the girl dying on the ground, the others cheering—it's so sickening, almost enough to make me throw the torch and my knife down, give up and walk away. But I don't. I walk around to the side of the clearing to check her supplies, I don't relish the idea of sifting through a dead girl's belongings, but it beats the alternative of standing around with them.

"Got something to say to me, Lover Boy?" asks Cato, looking over at me.

"Good job killing that little girl," I say flatly. I know I'm playing with fire, but I can't help it.

I go back to looking through her things. There's not much here—the remains of a loaf of bread and a cloth doll with black yarn for hair. The doll itself is old and worn, but its dress is new and made of a rich brocade. She must have been from the textile district, then, District 8. And this must be her district token.

"Find anything good," Glimmer says walking up to me. She picks up the doll and waves it in the air. "Look at this! The little girl brought her dolly." The others come over and she shows the doll to them.

"And look how cheap it is," says Glimmer, holding up a strand of the doll's yarn hair. "We wouldn't give this to a dog in District 1." She tosses the doll toward the tree where the body lies.

"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking," Cato says. We head out of the clearing towards a similar one a few yards away.

"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?" asks Glimmer.

"I'd say yes nothing to prevent them from going in immediately," says Clove.

"Unless she isn't dead," Marvel says.

"She's dead. I stuck her myself," says Cato.

"Then where's the cannon?" Marvel counters. Marvel might present himself as a cocky, watered-down version of Cato, but there's a slyness there, a subtle undermining of Cato's leadership that says Cato should watch his back.

"Somebody should go back," Glimmer says. "Make sure the job's done."

"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice," Marvel agrees.

"I said she's dead!" Cato barks.

"We're wasting time!" I yell. "I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

I head back to the clearing we left. Back to the girl I sacrificed, who I didn't even try to save. I kneel by her side in the blood stained grass, the light from the dying fire illuminating her face. She is still alive, but only just, her breathing thickly wet and raspy. Her eyes fly open, finding mine again, and this time I don't turn away. I let myself feel the sorrow I couldn't afford earlier. Sorrow for this girl, for the other dead tributes, and yes, for myself.

She lifts a blood stained hand from her wound and gestures to something a few feet away. It's the doll. I go over and pick up the toy gently, reverently before pressing it into her hands. She gives me a ghost of a smile as she pulls the tattered doll in close. And for this, I'm glad I came back, glad I am able let her die with something she values.

I sit down next to her, ready to wait out the last minutes of her life with her, so she doesn't die alone. Then I feel her sticky hand on mine, grasping it tightly. She looks steadily at me, her eyes pleading with me again, this time to end the pain.

Stabbing Pelles had been automatic, the only thought running through my mind then was to stay alive. This would be something different. I think I could make it painless, a quick cut across her neck or a hand over her mouth and nose. I pull the single bladed knife from my belt.

Nothing in my life has prepared me to make decisions like this. It's so easy to say what a tribute should or shouldn't do while sitting at home in front of the television in relative safety.

Guilt and empathy wrench me in opposite directions.

Before I can decide what to do, her hand slips from mine and her breathing shudders, leaving one lingering bloody bubble suspended in its wake before she goes completely still.

Tears sting at the edges of my eyes for this girl, for my compliance in her killing. For not even having the courage to ease her pain. I've failed, even in this.

But, I know I can't cry, not with the Careers waiting. Instead I wipe the girl's blood onto the grass, stand up, and trace my way back to her murderers.

I walk up to the others who are standing in a tight circle, the laughter I heard in the distance cut off like faucet.

I don't need three guesses to tell who they've been talking about. I can't worry about it. I mean, it really isn't a secret that they're planning to kill me at some point.

"Was she dead?" asks Cato.

"No, but she is now," I say and less than a heartbeat later, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?"

We set off in a run. My strained ankle protests the constant movement, but I force myself to keep up, to keep going. As the sun rises over the arena, all the birds fall silent and I hear the call of a single mockingjay.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

We head back to the lake, dropping the remains of our blacken torches, exhausted, but we're not the only ones. Feechee has spent the night digging up landmines. The components lie spread out across the barren ground, landmines stacked up like large metal pie pans near the pyramid of supplies. He looks up as we come into view, clearly counting our number and coming up disappointed.

"I heard the cannon. What happened?" he whispers, coming up to me. He seems to think of me as an ally, even though I'm the one who almost killed him.

"Someone died," I say. I immediately regret being short with him, but the events of the night and the memory of the dead girl have left my nerves raw.

"Who? What it that girl, you know, the one from your district?" he asks.

"No, it was the girl from District 8," I say.

"You two, come over here," says Marvel. "Get some breakfast." We trail him over to where the others have congregated.

"Going to bake us some bread, Lover Boy," says Glimmer giving me a smile. "I'd love a taste."

"Knock it off, Glimmer," says Marvel.

"It's none of your business, Marvel," mocks Glimmer.

"You better eat," says Marvel, turning back to us. "Glimmer and I are on first watch. You and District Three are last."

We sit on two empty crates and Marvel hands us plates and we help ourselves to the food, the bacon and eggs already sizzling on a flat pan laid over the fire. Everyone else is already eating.

"So this is your kind of place, isn't it, Lover Boy," says Marvel. "Out in the middle of nowhere, full of trees."

"There's a forest in my district, but I live in town," I say. "No one goes into the forest, it's dangerous, full of wild dogs and other animals." No one but Katniss, but they don't need to know that.

"Huh, that's all they show when they talk about District Twelve, lots of trees and mountains full of coal," says Marvel. "Must be like when they talk about the luxury of District One."

"Yeah, the way they show it, every second in our district is a non-stop party," says Glimmer.

They manufacture luxury goods in District 1, jewels, fabrics, everything beautiful. It buys them a better life than most of the other districts, better treatment, more food. Since the rebellion of the Dark Days, the districts have been isolated, forbidden to communicate with each other. The only source of news about other districts comes from the Capitol, filtered and diffused. I'd of thought life in District 1 would be almost as good as in the Capitol.

"It's not like that?" I ask.

"Only if you think cutting and shaping gemstones for hours is exciting," says Marvel.

I find myself grinning at him. As far as Careers go, he doesn't seem so bad.

"Sounds like you're complaining about your district," says Cato. "Or is your problem with the Capitol?"

Everyone falls silent, watching Cato and Marvel, wondering if Marvel will react to this challenge. Cato could take him in a physical fight. Possibly.

On the other hand, Cato may not have to lift a finger if the Gamemakers takes Marvel's comment the way Cato did. Any attack on the Capitol or its place as the shining beacon of truth is met with a bloody reprisal. Even in the arena they can arrange accidents—rockslides, quicksand, avalanches—to punish difficult tributes.

"Not complaining," says Marvel, licking his lips. "Everything the Capitol shows is true. It just seems a little different when you've lived there all your life."

After that, no one says much. We'll take turns sleeping throughout the day with two people keeping watch each time. It's difficult, sleeping around people who wouldn't mind killing you, but I've been awake for over twenty-four hours, haven't really slept well since before reaping and exhaustion makes you take risks. I roll out a sleeping bag and get into it, my hand wrapped around the hilt of my knife, my back wedged against the warming metal of the Cornucopia, and I sleep.

Feechee wakes me up in the afternoon, poking me tentatively on the arm. I have the knife drawn and pointed before I realize it's him, he has to shout twice that it's our turn to watch. He'd unrolled his sleeping bag near mine against the Cornucopia, but it's clear he's been awake for hours. We set up guard right in front of the pyramid of supplies.

The watch is uneventful, most of the Careers are awake and mowing about by this time and no tributes are foolish enough to show themselves here. I watch the tall grass on the other side of the Cornucopia sway in the breeze. Some of the patches of grass are golden and fronded, wheat or some other grain, I think. Every once in a while I hear guttural hissing from that direction, but nothing comes out into the field.

Feechee continues to work on the landmines. It's delicate work and I stay far away, but it's interesting watching him work. He could be watching television for all the reaction he shows. When I ask him about it, he just shrugs.

"It's what everyone does in District Three," he says. "And almost no one ever gets blown up."

After our turn is up, it's time to prepare for another hunting trip. I dread it, this hunting down the others, liking the Career kill frightened kids who just want to go home. I can only hope Katniss isn't one of them.

I head over to the pile of supplies and search through the backpacks and pull out a dark green one, good for blending into the forest. It's already filled with several packs of the dehydrated food I ate yesterday, a flashlight, and a half gallon jug of water. I sort through the first aid kits, looking for the things I need.

The Cornucopia has a limited supply of first aid treatments—mostly just bandages, a few pills for pain. Even though the Capitol has the best medicines in the world, the Gamemakers wouldn't give any tribute that kind of edge. I treat my mostly healed hands with another antiseptic wipe before taking care of my other wounds and bruises.

On impulse I grab a spear and a few replacement spearheads. I still have my knives, but it seems wise to have a distance weapon, too. I'm still sorting my pack when I see Clove and Cato through the gaps in a stack of rolled sleeping bags. I duck down so the pile of supplies hides me from view, but the pair aren't focused on me, they're intent on their own conversation. I start to slip away, but then I stop, they wouldn't mind sharing with their ally, would they?

"Clove, stop," says Cato, his voice quiet but urgent, pulling her arm so she faces him. "I want to talk to you."

"Well, I don't want to talk to you, so let go," she jerks her arm out of his grasp and goes over to a long magnetic rack holding knives of all sizes, selects several and starts putting them in the pockets that line her jacket. Cato paces in front of her, his face a mask of irritated, before turning around and walking up to her again.

"You have to listen to me—"

"About what," she asks. "How you're sorry? We both know you're not."

"You know this wasn't the plan. Aquila was supposed to volunteer. I would win this year and you next yea—"

"But Aquila didn't volunteer and you still did, even though you _knew_ they called me. You knew it would be me," says Clove.

"Clove, this was my last year, my last chance to be victor. I had to volunteer."

"Victor? You haven't won this thing yet," Clove says walking pass him, before turning around. "If it comes down to you and me, Cato, you better not hesitate, because you can bet I won't." Cato stands around a few seconds before turning and stalking off in the opposite direction.

Huh. That was interesting. Maybe it was for the cameras, a way to get on the star-crossed lover bandwagon, but I don't think Cato's the type to put on a show for the cameras that doesn't involve a gory death. So, Cato and Clove.

It makes sense, in a way, since they train together for years before volunteering. But Clove didn't volunteer. Almost all the other Career tributes did, but Clove's name came directly from the reaping bowl.

It's so hard to think of the Career tributes, especially from District 2, those loyal Capitol lap dogs, having emotions or hopes beyond their all too real brutality. They are as bloodthirsty and ruthless as everyone thinks, but as trapped as the rest of us. Maybe worse off, because they're expected to win, and have to play the Games straight.

In the evening the anthem plays and they show the girl from District Eight in the sky, the first stars of twilight shining through the projected image. She's the only one tonight, no one else found a way to die once we returned to camp. Everyone but Feechee gathers their gear and we head back to the forest. Hunting time.

We don't find anyone. For all his training, Cato doesn't realize that any half aware tribute will see our torches a mile away and disappear. It's possible he thinks we'll flush them out into the open where our greater number can run them down, but I'm grateful it's not working out that way.

The trees creep by, most unfamiliar to me, creating dramatic silhouettes in our torches. We doggedly crash through the woods, following his lead all night before returning to the lake for another impromptu breakfast and sleep.  
I pick the same spot as yesterday with my back to the Cornucopia. I wonder what Katniss is doing, if she's okay out there alone. As I drift into that place between sleep and waking I think of her safely tucked into some tree, waiting for a squirrel to wander by. The thought warms me as I sink into a dreamless sleep.

Another afternoon passes with me and Feechee standing another uneventful guard, eating the last of the fresh oranges and talking about our districts. Feechee tells about his mentor Beetee, the guy who stood up during my interview, and I realize that my joke about teaming up with District Three has become reality. Apparently Beetee is some kind of genius and mentioned using the landmines during training.

As expected, the night sky holds no dead tributes, the day has been just as uneventful for the rest of them as for us.

We head out and the trek through the forest is equally without incident, I'm using my spear as a walking stick, trying to memorize the shapes of various trees, wishing I had some drawing paper, when Cato turns on me.

The Careers are anxious for a kill. With no attention-grabbing deaths the people of the Capitol could lose interest, those rich potential sponsors tuning out. Better to keep tensions high.

"You have no idea where you're little girlfriend is, do you?" Cato asks.

"I don't have a map of the arena," I say, holding back a grimace. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Why can't l learn to keep my mouth shut around him?

Cato clenches his teeth and draws his sword. "Then, what good are you? Why shouldn't I kill you right now?"

I fight to keep my eyes fixed on his. "It's not the _where_ you need to worry about, it's the _how_. How are you going to kill her when she's so skilled the Gamemakers gave her the highest score in history? _That's _what I'm good for."

"So you do know what her skill is?" he asks.

"I do, better than anyone," I say.

He closes the distance between us, forcing me to look up to hold his gaze. He's trying intimidate me and yes, it's working, but I manage to hold my ground.

"Are you going to tell us, Lover Boy?" he sneers.

"When the time's right," I say.

"And how will you know—"

Just then, several dozen birds take flight from the trees, flapping their wings in a hurried panic as a cloud of dense black smoke descends, surrounding us.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 15**

Immediately a round of hacking takes over as the hot smoke sears through our lungs.

"Where did this come from," Glimmer chokes. "Where's the fire making it?"

"Might be…just a Gamemaker trick." I say through bouts of coughing.

Sometimes, when there isn't much action, the Gamemakers like to whip some up in the form of not-so-natural disasters, like this smoke. No natural forest fire could have appeared so quickly with smoke so uniform and directionless. Usually, these obstacles aren't meant to kill—the Gamemakers prefer to force tributes to kill each other—but, they are enough to maim.

"We have to get out of here," Marvel says.

He's right, each arena has hot spots, places rigged with different attacks. If we keep moving, we might be able to find the edge and get out. We all crouch low to the ground. I pour a little water from my canister down the front of my shirt and lift the damp fabric up over my mouth and nose. Cato tries to lead us in the same direction we were going, but the smoke is even denser there, the air filled with thick particles of ash. I hear someone, I think it's Glimmer, retching against a nearby tree.

Just then, in the distance I see a tiny flame rocketing towards us. I squint through the smoke and my own watering eyes to make it out, but the dark cloud around us makes it impossible. Seconds later, it doesn't matter because it's right on top of us. A wild dog sprints past us, yipping loudly as he attempts to out run the flames engulfing his back. Several other dogs follow him through the underbrush.

So, there must be a fire, hidden somewhere in the smoke. I look after the pack of retreating dogs. "Looks like they know the way out of this, we should follow them."

Cato nods tightly at me, signaling that our argument is on hold, not forgotten, and heads in that direction. I swallow a few mouthfuls of water, trying to put out the fires in my throat as we tramp behind the dog pack. Every step is a battle, it's impossible to run when your lungs are on fire, and we soon lose our guides. For a while we follow the sound of the yipping, but that too fades out of reach.

The forest around us changes, the trees become sparser, the ground more rocky, but the smoke still doesn't recede. Where are the Gamemakers leading us? It must be what they are doing, moving the pieces on their game board to suit their purpose.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a second spark. I have time to wonder if it's another animal on fire before a fireball, the size of my fist, slams into the tree behind me, driving jagged tree limbs down on top of us. On impulse, l knock Marvel out of the path of the burning shards, sending us both sprawling to the ground. We barely dodge a limb so sharp it buries itself deep in the soil.

He gapes at me in disbelief and I'm vaguely aware that I just saved his life, but it's all secondary to my heart pounding through my chest, my limbs weak with fear.

This time, the Gamemakers are playing for keeps.

We have entered a world on fire. Everything in front of us is burning. Instead of getting away, we've stumbled into the center of the Gamemakers' flames. As one, we turn to go in the opposite direction, back where we came from, but a huge tree falls, blocking the path and separating us from each other.

I pick a direction at random and run. About twenty feet in front of me a second fireball illuminates a dodging Clove in the black smoke. She jumps and rolls as the fireball hits the ground where she just stood.

I'm drenched in sweat, the sound of my ragged breathing loud in my ears, as I race through the trees, looking for a way out of the burning maze. Somewhere along the line I drop my torch and spear, but they're the last things I need. Flaming trees on both sides light my way and any tributes left in the area are running for their lives.

I know that I can't keep up this pace, that I'm going to have to stop. I risk taking a break in a fork formed at the base of a tree. After the second one, there are no more fireballs, but the trees have been burning so hot and for so long that they are unstable. Debris rains down on me and burning flakes of wood land on my chest and back. I beat the fire out before shakily pouring the rest of my water over my head, my hands trembling from excess adrenaline.

There has to be an end to this attack, it can't last much longer. That's the way the Games work. If they'd wanted us dead, we'd be dead. They're only doing this to give the audience a little thrill.

Well, I hope they're enjoying it.

After what feels like hours of dodging the flames, the smoke starts to lighten, not in density, but in color. The cloud of black smoke is slowly turning a ghostly gray, impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, but less oppressive that the wall of black. It must be morning and with the coming light, the firebreak, the edge of the Gamemakers' attack, becomes visible. I move away from the flames.

For the first time in the arena, I'm alone. I know the smoke is still too thick to be safe, that I need to move, but I can't find the energy. I collapse on the ground with the pack still strapped to my back, feeling the pain of half a dozen new injuries, mostly burns but with a few scrapes from tree branches mixed in.

Somewhere in the smoke I hear Clove hoarsely calling for Cato. She's close and coming closer. It occurs to me that I could leave the Careers, slip away in the smoke, and maybe even find Katniss. Who knows what state the alliance is in? Clove and Cato could be the only ones left and either of them might kill me on sight.

Glimmer bursts through the wall of smoke, her bow loaded with an arrow. She lowers it when she sees it's me.

"Found Lover Boy," she calls out. I get up as the grime smeared faces of the others materialize in the smoke. Despite the fury of the attack, no one's dead or even badly injured. They've also been more judicious with their weapons, still gripping spears, knives, and swords. I check my belt, at least I still have my knives.

"We should head back to camp," Cato says.

"And which way would that be?" Clove asks.

The forest around us is new, the trees, some of them still burning, have strange white branches that curve into the smoky air like grasping fingers.

"We might as well get started walking," Cato says. "Something'll look familiar."

But it doesn't. The day lags on and we are lost, without much food and no water. We pass the day alternating between stumbling around in the smoke and resting. As evening approaches, we find ourselves by the same rock formations we left at daybreak. In all this time we've gone in so many circles that we ended up where we began. We collapse on the remains of the rocks, too tired to complain. Only sporadic coughing breaks the silence.

"What's that sound?" Marvel asks. I strain my ears to listen to the faint sound through my fatigue and smoke blunted senses. It's a light gurgling sound followed by splashing.

"Water," Kai says. "And it's close."

Water. The only word that could motivate me to get up. We march in the direction of the sound, listening in silence, a new energy to our movements. The smoke seems to be clearing the closer we get to water. I know it's not the lake, we couldn't have stumbled back to camp, but it could be the stream that feeds it. I hope the water's clean. I didn't bother to bring the iodine with me, thinking we would be back long before my canister was empty.

A shallow pool comes into view, flowing over stones worn smooth, green lily pads studding its surface. And it must be feed from the lake at the Cornucopia because I can see the water bubbling up from its source. We must not be very far from camp after all.

Now that the smoke is clearing I think I know where we are. The Cornucopia isn't more than a mile away. Relief leeches the tension from my body. I'm ready to run the short distance to the pool when something I thought was a large rock reshapes itself. What, actually _who,_ it becomes glues my feet to the ground.

It's Katniss.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

I flashback to that first night in the arena, when we came across the girl from District 8. Like her, Katniss is sitting at the edge of the pool dozing, looking small and vulnerable with her dark head tucked into her chest.

So this was the Gamemakers' plan, give the Career pack their prey. Or it's possibly my own fault, the result of me working the star-crossed lover angle. They'd have to reunite me and Katniss to see where my loyalties lie. Cato gives a whoop and the others surge forward and I have no choice but the follow.

By the time I reach them, Katniss is up, running through the pool and out into the underbrush. Her jacket, the same one we all wear, is in tatters, torn to less than half its original length. She's injured. Beneath her ripped off pant leg, a burn covers her entire calf, bright red against the brown of her skin.

She sprints through the trees, her braid bouncing behind her, but she's not fast enough and the pack starts to gain ground. Cato calls out to us to keep up and I push myself to get ahead. If I get there first maybe I can do something. I don't know what, but something. The problem is, after the past few days I don't know if I have anything left.

I can't let them kill her. It won't happen. If they kill her I'll go crazy.

Katniss veers off, making her way to the base of a tall tree, then climbs twenty feet in as many seconds. We surround the tree, the others flaunt their weapons, ready for the kill. Katniss looks down at us, no surprise on her face at seeing me with the Careers. Is it possible she guessed what I'm doing or did Haymitch tell her after all?

I look away, afraid I'll somehow reveal my true feeling. How are we going to get out of this? We probably won't. This might be it, the place where I have to make my stand and hope she gets out alive. I thought I'd been afraid before, but nothing that's happened, not the bloodbath, not the nightly hunts, not the fire, could prepare me for this.

I pull out my straight edge knife, as casually as possible, and start polishing it with the edge of my shirt.

Then Katniss smiles down at us. "How's everything with you?"

She sounds almost cheerful. The others are thrown, and I can't say I'm far behind. I stare at the gnarled tree trunk, trying to understand Katniss Everdeen and coming up blank. What is she doing? Maybe she has a plan.

Cato recovers his voice. "Well enough," he answers. "Yourself?"

"It's been a bit warm for my taste," says Katniss. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come on up?"

I have to close my eyes and work to stifle a groan. Is she trying to get killed? Is that the plan, death by Career?

"Think I will," says Cato. The others cheer him on. He starts up the tree, his sword in hand, forcing Katniss to climb higher. I steal a glance at the branch she's perched in. It's thin, too thin, I think, for Cato to reach.

If he gets within ten feet of her, I'm going to have to do something and the only something that comes to me isn't much of a plan. In training I only succeeded in nailing the target with a knife a handful of times, but I can't think of anything else.

Even if I don't hit Cato, it will be a distraction, give her a chance to escape. It'll also mean Clove or one of the other will end up killing me. I might able to fight off one or two of them, and it might be just enough for her to get away. Unless I can think of something else.

A branch cracks and Cato tumbles to the ground from fifteen feet up. Unfortunately, he manages not to break his back. He gets to his feet cursing us, the tree, and Katniss.

Katniss doesn't stop, but continues to climb until she's almost invisible in the foliage. None of us can get as high as she is now. Glimmer gives it a try, but chickens out as soon as the branches begin to crack under her weight.

"This is stupid," says Glimmer, loading the bow with an arrow. "I'm just going to shoot her."

"Be my guest," says Cato. "I don't care how, I just want her dead."

It took Glimmer three shots to kill Pelles and he was right in front of her. Katniss is up at least eighty feet. Glimmer won't hit her, I tell my pounding heart.

And I'm right, but it is a close call. Glimmer lets three arrows fly in Katniss' direction and one of them comes close, burying itself in the trunk of the tree above her head. Katniss pulls it out and waves it teasingly, causing Glimmer to throw the bow to the ground, shrieking that it's defective.

"Well, Lover Boy," says Cato, "You've been claiming to know how to get her, now's your chance."

I let out an exasperated groan that's anything but fake, but I keep my voice low. "I would if you hadn't run her up a tree. Now there's no way to get to her."

"Then make her come down," Cato says.

"How?" I ask. "You've blown my cover. If you'd let me go to her alone, I could have led her right to you, but she's not going to trust me now."

"Thanks for letting us in on _that_ plan," Glimmer says.

"I thought it was obvious," I say.

"I think you're stalling," says Cato. "Are you trying to help her? Is that it?"

For a moment, I'm taken aback, cornered, but then I brazen it out. "You think this is some plan to help her?" I say. "Which part? Hunting her down or trapping her up a tree?"

"We could set the tree on fire," Kai interrupts in flat tones. "Even if the fire doesn't kill her, the smoke will." The others turn to her speculatively. It's the most I've ever heard her say and what a time to pipe up.

Fear is supposed to be cold, but thinking of Katniss burning alive, knowing how she hated even the artificial fire at the opening ceremonies, makes me feel like I'm the one on fire, every beat of my heart pumping hot, molten fear.

"It's only fair, she's the girl on fire, after all," says Clove.

"And if we can't control it?" I say. "We just got out of a fire zone, do we really want to make another?"

"I don't think we should start a fire," Glimmer says. "I know I could shoot her if it wasn't so dark."

I look up through the still clearing smoke and she's right, dusk's fallen since we started talking.

"Whatever we're going to, we need to do it now," says Marvel.

"Oh, let her stay up there," I say. "It's not like she's going anywhere. We'll deal with her in the morning."

I look up in the tree, I can't see her in the growing darkness, but I hope what I said isn't true, that she can sneak away in the night.

The Careers go about setting up camp around Katniss' tree, collecting fallen branches to make new torches, rolling out blankets on the ground. I help them, but my mind is trapped about eighty feet up a tree, overhead where the birds have started to sing. I lie down, but I know I won't be sleeping tonight.

My mind's looped on the idea of finding the right distraction. Coming up with a distraction is easy, but coming up with a believable one that leaves me alive and gives her enough time to escape? It's beyond me. Even ones where I die will leave her vulnerable to at least three or four remaining Careers.

By dawn I'm the only one awake, even Glimmer who's supposed to be keeping watch, is asleep. But time's running out, they'll be up soon enough.

Maybe she has a plan.

Earlier, during the nightly anthem—this was another deathless day—there had been a sort of rustling and I'd hoped Katniss had somehow jumped to the next tree without being detected, but now I hear the same sound. It has to be Katniss still up there.

_Crrk! Crrik! _I hear a branch cracking overhead and I think it is Katniss falling from atop her high perch, but it's not. A wasps' nest falls to the ground, bursting open less than a foot from my feet. Then I see the golden bodies of the insects swarming from the nest and know these aren't ordinary wasps. It's a nest of tracker jackers.

At home, they once found a tracker jacker nest in an abandoned building in town. They decided to burn the structure down instead of deal with these insects. Because they are more than just wasps.

During the Dark Days of the rebellion, the Capitol created a variety of genetically altered animals to use as weapons. People call them muttations or mutts for short. Most of them have disappeared or are more or less harmless now, even mockingjays are the descendant of one of their mutt creations, the jabberjays, that could record whole conversations, but tracker jackers are just as dangerous as they've ever been.

Planted strategically in the districts, these wasps were breed to be killers. It only takes a few sting to cause death. Even one sting can produce horrible hallucination that can drive you insane. Tracker jackers also hunt down anyone who disturbs their nest and tries to kill them. And right now, I'm the target.

I scramble to my feet, away from the angry tracker jackers, but I already feel a stabbing pain in the back of my calf and I know at least one of them has honed in on me. I trip over Clove in my dash to get away, waking her up. Her shrieks alert the others and they get to their feet, confused, yelling and trying to pack up their supplies in the chaos but I'm already running. In quick secession I feel another sting on my neck and a third on my arm, causing my step to falter. I almost forget what I'm doing when I hear Cato call behind me. "To the lake." The others echo his cry.

The lake! Somehow I find the right direction and make my way back to camp, getting stung at less two more times in the chest, the venom in my veins tilting the world at sharp angles.

The lake comes into view and I stagger into its shallow edge, splashing water all over myself to remove the attack scent from my body. The tracker jacker stings have swollen to enormous size, the one on my neck feels about the size of an orange. I splash extra water over it.

Cato, Marvel, and Clove follow closely behind me, jumping into the lake amidst a cloud of angry tracker jackers. Thankfully, it's just a small portion of the nest and after a few minutes, no longer scenting them, the tracker jackers dissipate.

Cato storms out of the water. "I'm going back, getting her now. Get your gear!"

"She's long gone by now," says Marvel. For a second, it looks like the bottom of his chin is melting, dripping off, revealing the flesh and bone underneath, but then I blink and it's only lake water. A hallucination.

"And if she hasn't run off, the tracker jackers got her," Clove says.

At that moment, the cannon fires in the distance, seemingly confirming her words. We all look up, but of course, there's nothing to see in the sky. Whoever just died won't be announced until this evening. The sound of the cannon rings in my ears, echoing back louder and louder and I push down a desire to scream Katniss' name.

"I'll go back," I say. "See if there's anything left."

"You think I'm leaving this to you?" says Cato, sounding slightly slurred. I don't know if it's his voice or my ears. "She made a fool of us, I'm making sure she's dead."

Cato takes off at a run, I follow him, stopping only long enough to grab another spear.

I'm headed back towards the tree when I hear a second cannon fire, the sound shakes the ground like an earthquake, but I'm not sure if that's real. Panic gives me extra speed and I rush through the trees, ignoring the many scratches I receive from the branches.

I break through the underbrush near the tracker jacker tree, spear raised. The wasps have disappeared, but Katniss is still there, stooping over a body. The blonde hair marks it as Glimmer, but that is her only recognizable feature. Her body, twisted and frozen in the last throes of death, is bloated twice its normal size with tracker jacker stings. A flicker of sadness inexplicably goes through me. It might be because she's the first dead tribute I know by name.

Katniss sits looking vacantly at me, the bow she must have retrieved from Glimmer's body slack in her hand.

Is this real? I blink again, but she's still there.

"What are you still doing here?" I whisper. "Are you mad?"

She just stares at me without moving, water dripping from her braid onto the bow in her hand. She must have found water too, maybe at that nearby pool.

I close the distance between us and see the painfully raised lump of a tracker jacker sting on her neck. She must be in the grips of some kind of hallucination, but she needs to go. Now. Cato will be here any second. I tap her foot with the bottom of my spear.

"Get up! Get up" I say, but she doesn't respond so I just pull her to her feet.

She looks around confused. "Peeta?" she mumbles.

I hear the heavy thud of Cato running through the brush behind me. He's close. I push Katniss away from me.

"Run," I whisper urgently into her ear. Her eyes try to focus on my face, the pupils so large I cannot see the gray.

"Run!" I repeat a little louder.

She finally hears Cato and takes off, part running, part stumbling away from the tree. She's way worse off than me or Cato. In her condition, Cato will catch her in less than a minute.

I turn to face him. He lunges forward, sword gleaming in the sunlight, face swollen with tracker jacker lumps. He looks after the figure of Katniss staggering away.

"You let her go!" Cato growls. "I saw you!"

I swallow hard. "I did."

He scowls at me. "I'll take care of you later, after I get her." He turns in the direction Katniss disappeared.

I step into his path.

"No," I say, relieved that the word came out even.

He looks at me and I don't back down.

He snorts. "Get out of my way, Lover Boy."

"No."

"Fine, you first, then her," he sneers.

He raises his short sword above his head and brings it down with punishing speed. I bring up my spear just in time to block a cut that would've taken off my head. The blow vibrates through the shaft of the spear with a loud thwack, leaving a notch in the wood but I hold on. I stop his strike again when he swings at me seconds later from the left.

"Traitor. You were with her all along, weren't you?" Cato snarls, slashing out again with the sword. "Answer me!"

I don't really have time to respond, being busy trying to stay alive and all. He bears down on me with his blade. The swing splinters the wood of my spear, leaving only half the shaft in my hands. I look down at the broken pieces.

On second thought, maybe getting him to talk would be better.

"Fight to the death... girl you love…hard choices," I say dodging a series of strikes. I can almost hear the volume being turned up on television sets throughout Panem. "You know…you have…Clove."

Cato losses his footing, stumbling back a step. I don't know if it's because of the tracker jackers or what I said, but I take advantage of it and turn to run.

"Not so fast," says Cato, lashing out with his sword. I feel the coolness of the steel against the skin of my thigh before a warm rush of blood soaks my pants. I can tell the cut is deep. Really deep. I stagger to the side and then sink to one knee as the piercing pain blinds me.

I don't think I can stand. I try anyway and slide back down.

Cato walks forward, smirking down at me. "It's over, Lover Boy. You're done."

I press my hand over the pulsing wound, the blood pouring between my fingers. Cato might have a point, but I'd hate to give him the satisfaction.

I lean hard on my spear, the shattered wood bites into my fingers but I manage to bring myself upright. If I'm dying here, if this is where my life ends, I'm going to stand and face it. I'm not dying on my knees.

"What do you think you're doing, huh? Being noble?" Cato comes and stands right in front of me. "I'm still going to kill your girlfriend and I can tell you now, she'll die screaming."

"No, she won't. You'll never touch her," I say.

With that bow, Katniss will kill him before he even knows she's there. Have I given her enough time to get away? It'll have to be. It's all the time I have left.

"What are _you_ going to do about it? You can barely stand," he says.

He takes that moment to push me. I stumble back, sliding against the slickness of my blood on the grass, but I do not fall. He brings the sword level with my neck, the blade just grazing the flesh.

"You never had a chance, you know," Cato says, pressing the sword deeper into the skin of my neck. Because I'm better than you, stronger than you…"

He drones on about how he's supposedly better than me—his training, his skill, even his district. I can tell the tracker jacker venom is affecting him, causing him to ramble.

"…and I would never let a girl come between me and winning," he finishes.

"Yeah," I say. "But, your cakes will never be as moist as mine."

He squints at me, confusion written all over his face and I use his momentary distraction to push his sword away and using the broken edge of my spearhead, I stab him in the chest. I'm too weak to put much force behind the blow and I know I did something wrong when the blow skirt off his ribs, but it makes him drop the sword to check the wound.

I will myself to move, to get up and go. I clench my teeth through the pain and force myself to take a step without the spear. Then another.

I realize Cato isn't following me. I look back and find him staring intently at the blood on his hand. It's the same look Katniss had. He's hallucinating.

I make it the few hundred feet to Katniss' pool, then check my own wound. It's as bad as it feels, a cut down to the bone. I may have escaped Cato, but I'm still dead.

After rinsing away the blood, I take my gloves off and the bandages underneath and press them into the gash. The pain nearly blinds me. I rip strips from my jacket off and wrap them around the wound. I remember the supplies in my pack and my weapons stuck back at that tree with Cato. No way to get to those.

I consider trying to make it back to the Cornucopia to get a first aid kit. No one but Cato knows I'm no longer an ally. But it's too dangerous, Cato could come out of his hallucination at any moment.

It's too dangerous to stay here, too.

I'm getting up, when I notice something moving beneath my make-shift bandage, writhing and undulating. Breathing hard, I begin unwrapping it, slowly peeling back the layers until a sea of tiny, nearly transparent spiders, covered in blood, come spilling out from my damaged thigh. I try to shake them off, but they continue to multiple, swarming up my leg, then my body, scuttling across my face, my hair, my back. I claw at my skin, trying them get them off.

The pain, the disgusting horror of this attack—I have to scream, but I know I can't. I cover my mouth with one hand, the other still trying to blindly scrap the insects off. My fingers inadvertently brush against the wound, exacting a pain that takes my breath away. I close my eyes against the agony and when I open them again, the spiders are gone. I look around.

They were never there.

I'd begun to think that I was immune to tracker jacker venom, or that its effects were severely exaggerated, but after that, I think people have been underestimating. The spiders were more real than real spiders, the feel of them against my skin more vivid.

But the pain brought me back. I look down at my leg, checking to make sure that the injury wasn't a hallucination. No such luck.

I limp away from the pool, even though I'm not sure why. It's a perfectly good spot to die, but that pesky will to live keeps pushing me onward.

The hallucinations return throughout the day as I try to find a resting place, waking nightmares of fear and terror in intense detail—my family being tortured, Katniss being killed before my eyes, being turning into a voiceless Avox. Once I was turned into one of the Capitol's mutts, something twisted with scales. Each time I feel the beginnings of a hallucination I use the pain of my wound, pressing hard against the cut to come back to myself.

By night fall I've made it to the stream that feeds the lake and I can't go any further, not without risking a torch. I'm even less equipped than tributes who left the Cornucopia with nothing. They've had the last few days to forage and find shelter, their bodies relatively sound. I kneel down on the banks of the stream, intent on gathering up a drink of water when I black out.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Drenching wet and shivering, I wake up face down in the mud, surprised to be alive. The sun tells me it is mid-morning, but it's anybody's guess what day. I lie on the banks of the stream, trying to decide if it will be worth it to get up.

I test my limbs, stretching my legs slowly. The white hot pain in my left leg nearly takes me back into unconsciousness. I wait five minutes before trying to sit up and then another five for the world to stop spinning. I half drag, half crawl through the scraggly green weeds to the edge of the stream and swallow a handful of water, rinsing the mud from my face and mouth. _Okay_, I tell myself, _time to walk_.

After counting to three, I get up, not thinking about the throbbing pain, and limp my way over to a pair of large rocking leaning against each other at the bank of the stream. I sit down on the slick surface, shaking from the exertion, salty sweat streaming into my eyes, my damaged leg stretched out in front of me. Here, I'm sheltered from the sun that's threatening to be intense today, but near enough to the stream that I don't have to make much effort to get water.

For the next few hours I do nothing more than watch the stream flow and try to breathe around the burning pain. I toy around with the idea of trying to catch some fish, but I know it will take more effort than it's worth. My appetite has vanished and the fish are small and fast, faster than I would be on the best of days.

I do make a halfhearted effort to pull up some of the weeds sticking up near the edge of the water and start knotting them together to make a net. It at least gives the illusion of being productive.

I still don't know how many days have passed since I blacked out or how many tributes are alive. Glimmer didn't survive the tracker jacker attack and I didn't see Kai afterwards either. It's too much to hope that Cato died from my weak jab with the spear, so he's still alive, probably with Clove and Marvel. Feechee's most likely still with them at the Cornucopia.

As for the others, I can't even guess. Katniss escaped, but could Cato and the others have hunted her down while I was out? The thought almost overwhelms me, making me weak from a different kind of pain. I could have easily missed the cannon marking her death, her face shining in the night's sky, gone forever. No, they couldn't have gotten to her, not with all that tracker jacker venom in their veins. They would have had just as bad a time as me.

I've coasting toward sleep when I hear splashing upstream, a sound that's different from the normal movement of the water. From that direction, the curve in the stream makes my hideout appears solid, concealing me from view, but it's easy enough for me to see through the joint between rocks.

I wait, holding my breath. If it's Cato and the Careers and they see me, there's nothing I can do. No chance of out running them, of getting away. And torture's probably on the menu now that I've betrayed them. If it's them, the best I could do would be to die with some kind of dignity, try not to scream or beg.

The seconds stretch on. When I see who it is, the breath whooshes out of me and I'm lightheaded with relief.

It's Katniss, walking in the stream, sloshing against the current. She's far away, but I can make out the dark braid of her hair. _She's still alive._ I devour the sight of her. She looks thin, but well, walking easily in the slow undercurrent. _She's alive._

And she has the bow. I see it now, slung across her back.

She leaves the stream and disappears into the forest. I almost call out to her, wanting her presence, her company while I wait to die, but I don't. To saddle her with me now would put her in the kind of danger I've been avoiding from the start. But, it's almost unbearable to watch her walk away from me. I stare at the spot where she disappeared into the forest for a long time, not thinking about anything.

It's dark before I know it and the anthem blares loudly for moment before the seal of the Capitol shines in the clear sky. There were no deaths today.

I suddenly feel extremely tired despite napping throughout the day. I shift to find the least uncomfortable position against the rocks_. In the morning_, I think as I'm drifting off. _I'll move further downstream and see if I can do anything about my leg._

Morning comes with a cannon shot and for a split second I wonder if it's for me.

No, dying was just part of the nightmare. I don't usually remember my dreams, either good or bad, but the impression of last night's dream, of running in the dark, searching desperately for something, stays with me. Is this a side effect of the tracker jacker venom? I shake my head to clear the last of the images. There's no use guessing which tribute just died.

Exiting my little shelter is a lot more difficult than entering it. My leg resist, but I manage to get up, bringing my handmade net with me. I take a cue from Katniss and decide to walk in the stream. It's another struggle to get my boots and socks off. I rinse out my socks and drape them over the opening of my boots, then I lace the boots together and carry them on my shoulders.

The water's cold and refreshing against my feet and I hobble downstream for thirty minutes before I have to rest again. I do this over and over until I get to an unfamiliar part of the stream with more rocks, boulders really, three and four times my height, much bigger than the ones I slept against last night. Many of these rocks also have crevices that would make decent hiding places. It feels safer here, less out in the open. The terrain is rough though, possibly too rough for me to navigate.

I stop for a while to try out my net. I'm still not hungry, but I know I _should_ be. It's been two days since I had anything to eat and I need to at least attempt a meal. Like I thought, I don't have the energy or the motivation to really make it work. The fish slip pass the net faster than I can draw it up.

I stop altogether and go to sit on the bank when I become too dizzy to stand. I bathe my face and neck in the water, riding out the unsteadiness. But it doesn't go away. I drink some water and vomit it back up almost immediately.

In late afternoon, I see smoke billowing up in the distance. It's not like the Gamemakers' attack, no quick blanket of choking smoke that comes out of nowhere. This is a tribute-made. But what is it? Some new tactic by to Careers to weed out the other tributes? Whatever it is, wounded, sick, without weapons, I know I'm prey.

So I do what prey always does when alarmed—I hide.

I take my net, which has been useless for fishing and pull the individual stalks out before finding a flat place near the stream full of the same kind of plants. I burrow underneath them, wincing as I shove my injured leg into the confined place. I do my best to leave the plants as undisturbed looking as possible and arrange the weeds from the net around my head and upper body. These plants are less vibrant than the fresh ones, so I weave in new ones and hopefully become just another clump of weeds.

As soon as I'm done with these preparations and tucked into my cocoon of weeds I hear the thunder of feet running along the banks of the stream, a pack that can only be the Careers. I close my eyes and wait, not moving, not breathing, just thinking _blend in._

The feet pound close to my hiding place, stopping a little farther upstream.

"I need... to take…a breather."

It sounds like Feechee. So he's alive and still with the Careers. The landmines must be ready now if he's hunting with them.

"Just hurry it up," says Cato. "We have to find out who lit that fire."

"It's not District 12, if that's what you're thinking. You have to admit now that she's smarter than that," says Clove.

"She not smart, just been lucky," says Cato. "I _will_ get her."

"And Lover Boy?" says Marvel.

"Didn't I tell you not to mention him again? His face'll be in the sky tonight for sure. He's as good as dead."

"That's what you said about the girl from Eight," Marvel points out.

"Let's just go," Clove says.

The feet pick up speed again and the sound eventually tapers off, headed the same way Katniss went yesterday.

The Careers didn't light the fire after all, some other tribute did. But why? Was it just inexperience, like that girl from 8? No. No one still alive after all this time could be that foolish. There's something going on.

I don't think they saw me, but it's best to move on. I wait another ten minutes before worming my way out of the disguise, leaving the weeds almost the same as before I used them. I check the area.

In the distance, this time farther away, a second cloud of smoke wafts into the sky. It's all too orchestrated. Maybe it is something from the Gamemakers. I don't want to find out.

I move through the boulders, my agility the product of fear, using my arms more than my legs to lift myself over difficult spots. Fever has joined nausea and my sight takes on a fuzziness around the edges.

I'm just lifting myself onto one of the rocks when an explosion rocks the ground. The vibration combined with my own shakiness throws me down where I land on my wounded leg. A cry I can't stifle erupts from my mouth.

Using the boulder as leverage, I haul myself back up, the movement leaving a smear of blood on the rocky surface. The fall must have reopened the wound.

I scrunch up a corner of my jacket and try to scrub away the blood on the rock, but it has seeped into the cracks and I have more urgent needs. I limp back to the water's edge and unwrap my makeshift bandage.

The wound is bright red with blood, skin tight with swelling, too painful to touch. I wash out the gloves, pull some of the lining out of the pockets of my jacket, add that, and then wrap it all back up.

There's no way I'll be moving anymore today, although I know that any tribute in the area heard me scream. The day's almost over, anyway and if they haven't come to kill me by now, they aren't going to. The cameras probably have their hands full with whatever that explosion was.

I sit in the shelter of the boulders and take a stab at figuring out what just happened.

If it was a Gamemaker attack, it was aimed at some other tribute or tributes. It's possible, especially if the Capitol audience is polarized—a battle between two popular tributes creates just the kind of tension Gamemakers love.

That would have to mean Cato and Katniss. Career tributes are always popular and it was inevitable that people would love Katniss. He's been after her since day one and she's made him look like a fool.

The boom of a cannon startles me and a shiver of dread goes through my body, but I suppress it. I won't have long to wait, the sun's already setting and the nightly death toll is in less than an hour.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

I watch the sunset over the arena, absorbing the intensity of color, the way it's the same sky no matter where you are. Of course, here in the arena, it could be some type of simulation, but I don't think it is. For all their advances, I don't think the Capitol could manufacture these colors.

For the first time in a long while, I wonder how my family is holding up. How my father is taking me being injured, if my mother thought it was stupid of me to protect Katniss from Cato.

By now they'd both know who died today. In all of Panem, only the tributes are left in the dark.

Working in the bakery, they might not have seen the deaths live, but the customers would have said something. If it was Katniss, the shops in town and the coalmines will all close early so everyone has a chance to watch the recap, they will even cancel after school activities.

The color slowly fades to darkest blue and I hear the first strains of the anthem of Panem, a song full of bombastic fanfare, before the seal is flickering in sky. It hangs suspended before vanishing into darkness and I hold my breath, waiting for the first death.

But the face is a complete surprise; it's neither Cato nor Katniss. It's Feechee.

The picture of the slight, wispy-haired boy lights up the sky and then he's gone. The thin face of the boy from District 10, the one who must have died this morning, takes his place, then they're showing the seal again and it's over.

I let out the breath I was holding and ground the heels of my hands into my eye sockets to halt the inexplicable sting of tears I feel there. I think about Feechee, how he was alive just this afternoon. I wouldn't call him a friend, you don't make friends in the arena, but he was…nice. And he deserved better than this. He came up with a plan that no one in the history of the Games had ever pulled off.

He should've had the chance to grow up, to do something brilliant, but now he's dead, gone forever. Even after everything I've seen, it doesn't seem possible. What happened?

_The explosion was at the Cornucopia._

Maybe that wasn't a Gamemaker attack, but just a failed experiment. It is possible Feechee didn't pull his plan off seamlessly after all, blowing himself up in the process. But the last time I saw him, he and the others were headed away from camp. Could he have made it back before the explosion? I don't know. I puzzle over this until sleep takes me.

The next morning brings more of the same pains. I'm able to get a few more yards downstream, but it becomes clear that I won't be able to go any further.

I can't go back either, the boulders that I thought meant safety act as a prison, trapping me along a short stretch of the stream. I'm forced to spend much of the day with my feet in the stream, dousing my hot skin with cool water and taking small sips to avoid throwing up.

I keep losing time, drifting into sleep at odd moments. Around noon, I go through the trouble of disguising myself again. It's my only defense against an ill-timed blackout. I do this carefully, gathering weeds before lying down near the bank of the stream. This time I also smear myself in mud to make the blending easier, and then I layer strips of the plants and leaves. The mud is cool against my skin and I find myself relaxing into it. It's almost comfortable and I close my eyes.

Two cannon blasts in quick succession wake me in late afternoon, but I have a hard time working up the same dread as before, everything, even emotions, seem far away. Even the pain is muted.

As I'm gliding back out of consciousness, a tiny mockingjay, no more than a fledgling, flies onto the knobby branch of a tree overhanging the stream and sings out a short, four-note melody.

Tonight it's little Rue from District 11 and Marvel's pictures lighting up the sky. Tiny Rue who wasn't a danger to anyone and Marvel with his cocky grin. Gone.

The deaths are related—they were too close together for anything else. Maybe Cato and Clove finally turned on him and the little girl just got in the way.

Every death is personal now, with a name to match the face shining in the sky. All these losses…we must be in the single digits by now. Cato, Clove, Katniss, and me—those are the only people I know are live, but there has to be more, right? Thresh is probably still alive. Anyone else? Are the rest of them dead? The thought makes me shiver; the arena has become a graveyard.

It must at least be the final eight—joining the dead tributes wouldn't be too bad, now. I imagine my family and friends back home, how they'd say I lasted longer than they thought I would, that I even outlasted most of the Career pack.

The next time I struggle up through the stupor, it is afternoon again. The gaps are getting longer and my arms and legs have gone numb. Beneath the twisted weeds I can hardly move. I know I don't have much time left.

For some reason I wish the little mockingjay would come back and sing. It wasn't the first one I'd seen in the arena, but it was the first one to sing for me and I wouldn't be so alone. I'd liked to have seen Katniss again too, before the end, so I could tell her I meant every word I said during the interview.

I think I had a dream about Katniss during this last blackout, she was laughing like she so rarely does in real life. I'd liked to have seen that again, too.

Seeing my father and brothers would be on the list. And kissing Katniss, definitely kissing Katniss. I wish I'd waited to make her my first kiss. She did kiss me once, back at the opening ceremonies, but it was only on the cheek. Eleven years, one kiss on the cheek.

I'd also have liked to eat some more of the food from the Capitol. I hate that my last meal was probably that freeze-dried packet of something called chipped beef…

The anthem's playing the next time I crack open my eyes. No deaths. I close my eyes, hoping that maybe I'll get a last good dream when I hear the trumpets that accompany a special announcement.

I hesitate; holding on to consciousness to hear the message. It's probably just a feast, a way to get the remaining tributes together somewhere, like the Cornucopia, to fight over food. Food's stopped being a concern of mine a long time ago.

The voice of the Hunger Games announcer, Claudius Templesmith, booms throughout the arena. He congratulates the six of us who remain. _Six!_ I'm wondering vaguely who the sixth person is when Claudius says something impossible.

There's been a rule change.

How is that possible in a game without rules? The only major rule is not stepping off the mined disks before the gong sounds, but even that's more of a suggestion.

Three days of constant pain can make a quick death sound promising.

But the disembodied voice continues. "Under the new rules, both tributes from the same district will be declared victors if they are the last two alive." The voice pauses, letting the information sink in. "I repeat, under the new rules, both tributes from a single district can be named victor if they are the last two alive."

For the first time in days I feel something other than pain. I feel hope.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

I struggle to stay conscious, to stay here, to stay alive. There's a nagging, burning thought in the back of my mind that Katniss won't care, that she won't bother to look for me, but I can't really believe it. Besides, it's obvious the rule change is for us—the star-crossed lovers from District 12. They wouldn't have made the change if our story wasn't popular in the Capitol, too popular to ignore. Haymitch must be doing a fantastic job of promoting it. My eyes popped open. Haymitch!

I'd forgotten all about our mentor back in the Control Room. I didn't need him while I was with the Careers, so wasn't looking for gifts from sponsors. But for the Gamemakers to make a rule change, we must have sponsors, rich powerful ones. Haymitch could have sent me something for this wound. Why hasn't he all this time? Did he think it would be a waste of a gift, that I'm too far gone already?

My elation deflates. The rule change could be too late. Katniss being my ally doesn't mean I'm not dead. If she finds me, it might only be in time to say goodbye. But hey, that's worth hanging on for. A kiss goodbye from Katniss Everdeen. My whole body's cold and numb, so I can't be sure, but I think I'm smiling.

The cameras must surely be looking for me now. They have to be, there's almost no one left to film. I wonder if they can see me in mud smiling like an idiot. I hope not. I've forgotten about that part of the Games. Maybe not having a clear shot of me will give the audience just that little extra twist of drama.

I spend the rest of the night alert, too afraid and anxious to give into sleep. And I'm a little worried that Katniss might do something reckless. Clove and Cato were plenty motivated to kill us before, but they'll know she's coming for me now, and that I'm weak and wounded. It's the reason I hadn't allied with her before, but now…now the Gamemakers have maneuvered us together and I can't say I don't want it.

Time folds over on itself again and everything starts to go a little hazy. Something's making a racket off to my left, but I can't focus on it. I'm so tired and it's so hard to stay awake. I try to remind myself I need to stay awake, but I can't remember why.

I hear the sound again and I try to ignore it, but it's grating, repeating itself on a loop. It comes to me through the pain that this is the call of a mockingjay. That's nice. Maybe it's the same mockingjay from a few days ago. The song it's picked is strange, though. It almost sounds like my name.

Other sounds come to me, of someone walking. It's not the heavy tread of any of the Careers, but the light footfall of someone used to moving unheard. I only hear it because it's so close.

I crack my eyes open and I see her, all grays and mauves in my feverish sight, stalking along the streambed her bow poised for a strike. "You here to finish me of, sweetheart," I croak.

Her head whips around, looking for the source of my voice, but she still doesn't see me.

"Peeta?" she whispers, still looking around.

She's almost right on top of me, her left foot level with my face. "Well, don't step on me," I say.

She jumps away from me. I laugh and she finally sees me in the cover of mud and leaves, her eyes wide.

"Close your eyes again," she says.

I hear a rustling, and then she's quiet for a long moment. "I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off," she says. She has to be kneeling by my side because her voice is much closer now.

"Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying," I say.

"You're not going to die," she says.

"Says who?" I ask.

"Says me," she says, finding my hand among the weeds. "We're on the same team now, you know." There's a hitch in her voice.

I open my eyes. "So, I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me."

She ignores this, instead pulling out her water bottle and holds it to my lips. I take a small swallow.

"Did Cato cut you?" she asks.

I nod and close my eyes again. "Left leg. Up high."

"Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," she says.

"Lean down a minute first," I say. "Need to tell you something."

She leans over me, tucking her hair behind her ears. I put my lips right up again her ear, brushing against the skin as I speak. "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it."

No time like the present to start working on that list of regrets.

She jerks her head back and tries to look outraged, but ends up laughing. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind."

But instead of getting a kiss, the next twenty minutes are full of screaming agony as Katniss tries to help me to the stream. Three days ago, it would have been nothing for me to walk the couple feet to the stream, but these final days have zapped, leaving me weak and boneless . I hadn't planned on ever leaving this hiding place, so I'd made it fairly permanent and the living plants have grown around me. Katniss pulls and tugs, but I can't move. And the pain. I'm biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, just to distract me from the pain in the rest of my body.

Katniss struggles through this too. She doesn't want to hurt me, but no matter what we try it's going to hurt. I grit my teeth and let her attempt to roll me the rest of the way to the stream. The rocky ground bits into my wounded flesh and we can only make one turn before I'm screaming.

She stops, breathing hard. Instead of getting me to the stream, she starts pouring the water from her half-gallon bottle over me. The stream water isn't as refreshing when it' being dumped on top of you, but it loosens the mud and that feels better.

She does this five times before I can see my skin again. And my bones. The bones of my hands and wrist are prominent under my pale flesh. And I've never seem the blue-green latticework of my veins so clearly through my skin.

Katniss helps me undress, gently pulling my jacket and shirt from my body, cutting away the undershirt caked to my skin. After that, I pull myself up against a boulder while she gently strokes the dirt from my flesh and treats my wounds.

Under normal circumstances this would be the highlight of my life—actually, I'm still kind of enjoying it now—but the dizziness has made a reappearance and I keep going back out.

Katniss takes my clothes away to wash in the stream and I close my eyes. When I open them again, she's in front of me, frowning.

"You're burning up." She shuffles through her bag until she finds a blister pack of pills that reduce fever.

Yes, the joys of actually having supplies.

She must have gotten away from the Cornucopia with some of the best gear for it to have this kind of medicine.

She pops two into my mouth and puts the water bottle to my lips. I swallow them and they immediately try to come back up, but I force the medicine to stay in my empty stomach.

I almost fail when Katniss offers me the leg of some kind of bird a few minutes later. The gamey smell of the meat brings the acidic taste of the pills up into my mouth, but I swallow it back down.

"Peeta, we need to get some food in you," she says.

"It'll just come right back up," I insist.

"If not the groosling, then something else," she counters. She puts the meat away and pulls out what looks like an assortment of mushy chunks.

"What's that?" I say.

She looks down at the food and then back up at me. "They're vegetables," she says in offended tones.

I shake my head. "Katniss, I'm sorry. I'm not going to be able to keep anything down."

"Some fruit, then. Just some dried fruit." She holds out a handful of dried apple rings. I can tell Katniss isn't going to stop until I eat something.

"Okay," I whisper, taking them from her hand.

She looks relieved. "Good."

She watches me until I eat them. They aren't bad—a little tough to chew— but my stomach doesn't reject them.

"Thanks," I say. "I'm much better really. Can I sleep now Katniss?"

"Soon" she promises. "I need to look at your leg first."

Katniss checks my leg. In all the pulling and rolling, the makeshift bandage has disappeared, leaving the cut open to the mud and dirt. The flesh is deeply inflamed, full of pus, and reeks of festering.

Her face turns grim, the color draining from her cheeks until she's almost as pale as I am.

"Pretty awful, huh?" I ask.

She schools her features, but stops to bit the fingernails of her left hand before speaking. "So-so," she says, shrugging. "You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines. First thing is to clean it well."

She pours more water over my lower body. After the mud is gone, she treats my minor wounds, the tracker jacker stings and small burns from the fireball attack, but she can't do anything for the cut, only stare.

"Why don't we give it some air and then…." She trails off.

"And then you'll patch it up?" I say. She probably didn't think she was getting herself into this kind of mess when she came looking for me.

"That's right," she says. "In the meantime, you eat these." She hands me more of the dried fruit, this time pear halves, and takes my pants to wash them in the stream and lay them out next to my jacket and shirt to dry.

She then pulls out her small first aid kit and sifts through it several times, but I know there's nothing in there for a wound like this. Maybe if I'd gone back to the Cornucopia in the first hours after Cato cut me, I could have found something that would have prevented the infection, but now, nothing in the arena can treat an injury like this.

We're going to have to experiment some," says Katniss.

She pulls out some more of the leaves she used to treat my tracker jacker stings. I'd been a little skeptical earlier when she chewed the mass of leaves up and smeared them on the tracker jacker lumps, but the relief had been instantaneous, so I let her put another handful of the chewed up leaves into my leg wound.

The pain doesn't go anywhere and pus begins to bubble out, dribbling down my leg in rivulets. It's repulsive, almost as if my leg isn't a part of me, as if I'm watching this happen to someone else.

Katniss stands over me, face blank, struggling to hide her feelings, but she's about as green as she was on the train when we ate all that Capitol food for the first time.

"Katniss," I say and she meets my eyes. And because everything about this situation is so unbelievably nightmarish and horrible, I do the only thing I can think of. I mouth the words. "How about that kiss?"

She bursts out laughing like I'd hoped she would and that unnerving blank look goes out of her face.

"Something wrong?" I say.

"I…I'm no good at this. I'm not my mother. I've no idea what I'm doing and I hate pus," she admits in one quick breath. She groans as she rinses away the pus and leaves. She puts more leaves into the wound and the pus starts back dripping. She lets out another disgusted sound.

I don't know why she should be so disgusted. She hunts, guts, and skins animals on a daily basis.

"How do you hunt?"

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," she says, then pauses. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

I lean my head back against the boulder. "Can you speed it up a little?"

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," she says.

I'd hoped that she hadn't noticed I didn't eat the fruit. But since the evidence is still in my hand, she couldn't help but see it. I put one of the chewy pieces in my mouth.

For someone who doesn't know what she's doing, she's efficient, cleaning the wound out three times with the leaves. The leg has lost some of that festered smell and the swelling has gone down.

"What next, Dr. Everdeen?" I say.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it," she says. "I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?"

I doze as she wraps up the wound in the bandage from the first aid kit.

I wake a few minutes later when she hits me with a small backpack.

"Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts," she says.

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," I say.

"You're just like the rest of my family. I care, all right?" She's blushing and all flustered when she turns away from me and holds her hand behind her for the shorts.

Laughing, I pull the shorts off. At every tug, the white-hot pain in my leg flares to life, but I feel better than I have since the fight with Cato. I throw the shorts over her head and they land in the stream with a splash.

She huffs and wades out to beat them between two rocks.

"You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person," I say. "I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower after all."

I can't see her expression because she's still facing the other way, but I think I see her give a little shiver.

"What's he sent you so far?"

"Not a thing," I say before realizing she said "so far." Why would she think I'd gotten anything, unless she already has? "Why, did you get something?"

"Burn medicine," she says. "Oh, and some bread."

My eyes go to her cut off pant leg and the mostly healed burn on her calf. It looks like it was bad, but still nowhere near as bad as the gash on my thigh.

But Haymitch sent her medicine.

It's what I would have wanted Haymitch to do anyway, help Katniss, but it still hurts that he watched me suffer so long, dying slowly in the mud and did nothing.

"I always knew you were his favorite," I say.

"Please, he can't stand being in the same room with me," she says.

"Because you're just alike," I mutter.

She doesn't answer me and I don't say anything else. I go back to dozing until she shakes me awake.

"Peeta, we've got to go now," she says.

"Go?" I say vaguely. That wasn't part of the plan and no one's been this way in days. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger."

She hands me my clothes back and helps me pull them on. I'm not sure why she feels it's so urgent now, after all this time, but her instincts have got to be better than mine.

She yanks me to my feet and I remember why I chose to lie in a mud puddle for three days. She pulls harder.

"Come on. You can do this," she says.

So I do it. With me leaning against her, we make it about fifty yards downstream before the world starts to dim and I have to stop. Katniss sits me down on the banks of the stream, rubbing my back as I recover. I breathe in and out, pushing air through my gritted teeth.

When I'm able to stand again, Katniss points out a small cave some twenty yards above the stream. I want to tell her I don't think I can climb twenty feet let alone twenty yards, but she's done so much for me today that she didn't have to, anyone else would have left after seeing my injury. I can't disappoint her.

Somehow, with a lot of dragging and leaning, we make it to the cave. Katniss covers the floor with a layer of pine needles she collected on the way up, then unrolls her sleeping bag and tucks me into it. It's big enough for two, but she insists on trying to make a blind to cover the entrance to the cave. I watch while she works.

Any other night in the arena, Katniss would be safely up a tree by now; hidden where Cato and Clove couldn't reach her even if they tried. Now she's anchored to me and I've done the one thing I promised myself I wouldn't do—I've put her in danger. Haymitch must hate me for messing up his best chance at a victor.

And I'm getting nothing but weaker. I haven't told Katniss, but the cut on my leg has swelled up again. I can feel it pressing again the tighten bandage.

She's pulling the vines down now, frustrated that they're not doing what she wants.

"Katniss," I say. She throws the vines down and comes over to me. She reaches out to brush the hair out of my eyes.

"Thanks for finding me," I say.

"You would have found me if you could," she says. Her hand pauses on my forehead, checking my temperature I think.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back—"

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," she demands.

"I know. But just in case I don't—"

"No, Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it."

She puts her fingers over my lips, but I push them aside. "But I—"

Before I can say another word, she leans forward and kisses me. It's just a quick press of her lips against mine, but it's enough to trap the words in my throat. She pulls away from me and starts fiddling with the edges of the sleeping bag.

"You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?" she says.

"All right," I whisper and then she's walking out the entrance of the cave.


	22. Chapter 22

Something wet slides down my face to my neck. I open my eyes to find Katniss sitting beside me in the sleeping bag. She's propped up against the stone wall, her eyes closed, and her hand resting against my shoulder. I pull the wet cloth off my neck. She needs to get some rest, but she's still taking care of me.

After kissing me, Katniss came back to the cave a completely different person, smiling, holding up the pot of broth Haymitch finally decided to send us. Sponsors deliver gifts to tributes using silver parachutes and this pot of broth was still wrapped in its shiny silver fabric.

It's a strange gift considering we have food and what I really need is medicine, but it wasn't nearly as strange as the way Katniss was acting.

The gift must have reminded her of the cameras, the sponsors, and our whole star-crossed lover act because the girl who came back was more like the girl from the opening ceremonies or the interviews than herself, kissing me and calling my name in a singsong voice.

I don't trust it. It was fake, part of the show, had to be. This fever hasn't made me crazy enough not to see that, but the kiss before… I'm not sure what to think. That kiss was impulsive—she even seemed surprised by her actions, her eyes open wide in shock after her lips met mine. I think it might have been real.

And I can sure believe everything she said in that hour of badgering me to eat the broth was real. Part of it was my fault, being stubborn, but she's good at getting her way and I ended up draining that broth pot to the last drop.

I didn't mind, not really. I like her scowls better than her fake smiles and no one's ever fussed over me like that, ever worried if I ate while I was sick or stayed awake all night caring for me. It felt nice. And I got a few kisses out of the deal, too.

Katniss snuggles down closer to me and I wrap my arm around her. She's chilled and my fever can finally be good for something. I close my eyes and just enjoy the feeling of her in my arms.

In the early light of morning, Katniss is nowhere to be found and I almost panic. I'm not sure why. She's been going it alone since the beginning, but logic has nothing to do with fear. I'm fighting off the sleeping bag, trying to stand up when she comes walking in with that broth pot.

"I woke up and you were gone," I say. "I was worried about you."

She comes over and tugs me back into the sleeping bag. She laughs down at me. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?"

"I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night," I say.

"Clove? Which one is that?" she asks.

"The girl from District Two. She's still alive, right?" I ask.

"Yes, there's just them and us and Thresh and Foxface," she says. "That's what I nicknamed the girl from Five."

Oh, yeah, the sixth tribute. I think she means the girl with dark red hair that came up to us at the knot tying station. I try to remember her real name. She wouldn't talk to me, but Caesar said it during the interviews…something with a D…Daphne? No, that's not it. It doesn't matter anyway, Foxface is as good a name as any and she does look like a fox with her pointed chin and almond shaped eyes.

"How do you feel," she continues.

"Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud. Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag…and you."

She reaches out to touch my cheek, but I catch it and press her fingers to my lips. She's not the only one who can demonstrate a bit of showmanship.

This time she's got mashed up berries in the broth pot and I eat them without objection. She offers me more of the gamey bird she calls a groosling, but doesn't force it on me when I refuse. After that I let her sleep since she spent most of the night nursing me.

I keep watch, sitting next to her, stroking her hair as she falls asleep on top of the wrinkled sleeping bag. Fire, probably from the Gamemakers attack, has scorched the end of her braid, making the hair brittle and crumbly. She's going to have to get a haircut when she gets back to the Capitol.

For some reason, after everything that's happened, this minor damage infuriates me. Maybe because I've always been fascinated with her hair. Thick and straight, black as a raven's wing and flowing down her back, it's so different from mine and everyone in town.

Nothing happens and I watch the clouds float across the sky through our tiny cave opening. With Katniss sleeping by my side, I'm more relaxed than I've ever been in the arena. I could almost pretend there aren't four people out there willing us to die.

If they're keeping the same schedule as before, Cato and Clove are at the Cornucopia sleeping. We won't have to worry about them until tonight. As for Thresh and Foxface, I haven't seen either of them since the opening gong. They aren't hunting us.

But what about us? What are we going to do? Or rather Katniss, because unless Haymitch sends some medicine quick, I'll be gone in a few days.

Of course, a lot could happen in a few days. All the other tributes could die fighting each other.

It seems like such a twisted thing to hope for, four deaths so we can live. Four more families grieving on top of the eighteen that have already lost their children.

I look over at Katniss, seemingly innocent in sleep, her long eyelashes fluttering. She wouldn't have any trouble taking out the four remaining tributes if it meant getting home to her sister.

It's not that I think she's bloodthirsty, but I don't think she lets much of anything get in her way. And a part of her is deadly, a hunter. The hand she doesn't have delicately curved under her chin clutches a loaded bow.

But there's another part of her that I'm just getting to know, a vulnerable and scared part that isn't the hunter or even the Capitol-made 'girl on fire' and she's the girl I worry about leaving here alone.

Katniss wakes up in early afternoon, angry that I let her sleep so long, but I don't apologize. She needed the rest.

"Nothing's going on here," I say. "Besides I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot."

Then, of course she scowls at me and I grin until she checks my temperature and even the scowl falls from her face. She makes me drink a couple liters of water before tending my wounds, first the stings and burns, then my leg. The leg is worse than I thought. More swollen, yes, but also with the veiny red streaks that mark blood poisoning.

I'm not sure even Haymitch could help me now. The medicine to cure this infection would cost a fortune and any sponsor who would give that kind of gift would have to love me more than my own father.

Medicines are the most costly favors given during the Games, more expensive than either weapons or food, and they're the gifts with the least return. No one wants to back a tribute who's already managed to get himself seriously injured. It wouldn't be a good bet.

Like at the stream, Katniss tries to be positive, hiding the seriousness of my injury, but her voice is shaking.

"I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss. Even if my mother isn't a healer," I say.

"You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," she says.

Her voice is so full of earnestness I can't help but agree, but I know the odds aren't in my favor. Katniss falls back on her old standby—feeding me to health—and offers to make soup. Before she leaves I think of the girl from District 8.

"Don't light a fire. It's not worth it," I say.

"We'll see," she says noncommittally, leaving me alone in the cave.

I almost get up to go after her, but the fever wins and I stay lying on top of the sleeping bag, watching the entrance, feeling helpless and useless.

Katniss returns a couple hour later, without soup. Good. Hot soup is the last thing I want or need. The temperature has sky rocketed in the cave, at least I think it's the temperature in the cave and not only my fever. She comes and sits beside me on top of the sleeping bag and puts another wet cloth on my forehead, it does very little to cool me down.

"Do you want anything?" she asks.

"No, thank you," I answer automatically, but I think again. I prop myself up against the rock wall behind us. "Wait, yes. Tell me a story."

With no deaths the last few days, the audience will be clamoring for something more interesting. But it's mostly because I like the sound of her voice.

"A story? What about?" she says. She sounds put out, but I know she's a good storyteller.

"Something happy. Tell me about the happiest day you can remember," I say. It'll be nice, hearing something happy, having a good memory to disappear into instead of the constant fear and pain of the Games.

She huffs and looks up at the cave's ceiling as if for inspiration. "Did I ever tell you about how I got Prim's goat?"

I shake my head. I should have guessed that the story would be about her sister. She hesitates again before beginning very slowly. I can tell right away that she's trying to hide something, her voice wavering on the ends of words.

She tells me that she sold a silver locket of her mother's for the money to get sister a present for her tenth birthday. Prim is twelve, so that would have been about two years ago.

But where was this expensive silver locket five years ago when she showed up at the bakery starving? It doesn't add up, but then, she still has her district token, a pin made of gold. It is attached to her jacket now, partially hidden in a fold in the fabric.

Was her mother so selfish that she wouldn't sell these things to feed her children? I think back to the first time I saw Katniss' mother, laughing in front of the school. I can't believe that.

Then I remember the cameras. Katniss must have gotten the money illegally, selling the game she hunts. It wouldn't be smart to announce to the world that you break the law on a daily basis.

"We were in the market looking for dress material when the Goat Man, that's what we call him anyway, this old man who keeps a herd of goats in the Seam, he catches my eye. He had a goat, a white one with black patches, lying down in a cart. Something, probably a dog, had mauled her…"

Her voice grows in confidence and I know this is part is true. She pulls me into the story and I can't stop looking at her animated face. Listening to her tell the story takes me home, just for a moment, to the bustle of the market in town and all the familiar sounds and faces.

"We haggled for half an hour before we agreed on a price. Everyone in the market had an opinion, that the goat would live and the price was a steal or that the goat would die and I'd been robbed, but I knew Prim and my mother could heal her. Gale offered to carry her. I think he wanted to see the look on Prim's face as much as I did. I even bought a pink ribbon to tie around her neck."

More than her hunting partner, then. Gale's almost a member of her family. One happy family. The thought has me shifting uncomfortably against the rocky ground. No, actually, it's good, Katniss having people who care about her, who share her joys. She always seemed so alone at school.

I wonder what the audience thinks of Gale. By now, with so few of us left, they must have interviewed our families and friends back home. They would have surely talked to him. Might put a damper on our supposed love story if he's claiming to be her boyfriend.

"You should have seen Prim's reaction. She was so excited she started crying and laughing all at once. My mother was less sure, but they both got to work on it, grinding up herbs and coaxing brews down its throat."

"They sound like you," I say.

"Oh, no Peeta. They work magic. That thing couldn't have died if it tried," she says before shooting a pained look over at me.

"Don't worry. I'm not trying," I say. "Finish the story."

"Well, that's it. Only I remember that night, Prim insisted on sleeping with Lady on a blanket next to the fire. And just before they drifted off, the goat licked her cheek, like it was giving her a good night kiss or something. It was already mad about her."

"Was it still wearing the pink ribbon?" I ask.

"I think so," she says. "Why?"

"I'm just trying to get a picture," I say. "I can see why that day made you happy."

"Well, I knew that goat would be a little gold mine," says Katniss.

"Yes, of course I was referring to that, not the lasting joy you gave the sister you love so much you took her place in the reaping," I say.

"The goat has paid for itself. Several times over," she says in haughty tones.

"Well, it wouldn't dare do anything else after you saved its life," I say. "I intend to do the same thing."

"Really? What did you cost me again?" she asks.

"A lot of trouble. Don't worry. You'll get it all back," I say. I hear the slurring in my own voice as if it were someone else's.

"You're not making sense," she says, reaching out to touch my forehead. The shocking cold of her hand against my skin tells me the fever has rocketed up several degrees.

"You're a little cooler though," she says.

I don't know if she's trying to deceive herself or just me, but this has got to stop. I'm about to call her on her lie when trumpets blare again and the voice of Claudius Templesmith fills the arena. Katniss races to the entrance to hear him better.

This time he is inviting the remaining six of us to a feast, but not for food. "Each of you needs something desperately," Claudius intones. "Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Katniss doesn't need anything, hasn't needed anything for days. She has food, weapons, water—it's me they're talking about, needing medicine for my leg. It'll going to be a bloodbath and Katniss looks like she wants to leave for the Cornucopia now, muscles taunt as if ready to run right out the cave.

I make the effort to stand up and drag myself over to her, gripping her shoulder. "No," I say. "You're not risking your life for me."

"Who said I was?" she says. Her voice is high. _Lie_.

"So, you're not going?" I press.

"Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don't be stupid," she says. _Another lie._

She leads me back to the sleeping bag. "I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there."

"You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long," I say. "_I knew that goat would be a little gold mine_. _You're a little cooler though_. _Of course, I'm not going_—never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin."

Her face turns red to the tips of her ears. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!"

"I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," I say.

"You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg," she says.

"Then I'll drag myself," I say. "You go and I'm going, too."

She considers this. It's bluff, pure and simple, on my part. I don't think I could get out of this cave without her help, but I'm willing to try if it means stopping her. Why is she so ready to run towards danger?

"What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" she asks.

No one would blame her if she did exactly that. Tributes don't risk their own lives for allies. Loyalty only goes so far, even between the star-crossed lovers from District 12. Everyone at home would understand. If she dies at the Cornucopia, District 12 would lose both its tributes because of me.

And I'd be stuck here suffering through my last days, knowing she died because of me. But, I'd be wasting my breath if I tried to explain any of this to Katniss, so I say, "I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go."

It's not a promise I can keep, but all I have to do is last until the feast is over.

She nods, but narrows those silver eyes at me. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!"

"Agreed. Is it ready?"

"Wait here," she says before disappearing out the entrance. I slump back down onto the sleeping bag and close my eyes. I need to save my energy. Convincing Katniss I'm not dying is going to take everything I've got.

She returns with the broth pot full of a sloshing liquid.

I eat the soup, feeding myself for the first time in days, even finishing the pot, but the room starts to spin in slow winding circles. I know the fever's winning. I do my best to hide it behind enthusiasm for the food, but of course, Katniss notices and makes me take more of the pills, even though we both know they won't put a dent in my fever.

She goes back out to wash the pot at the stream, but doesn't come back with a clean pot. She's refilled it with more berries.

I'm beginning to hate Haymitch for sending that pot in the first place.

"I've brought you a treat," she says. "I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream."

She holds a spoonful to my lips, gently nudging me with the edge of the utensil. I agreed to eat so, I swallow down the first mouthful. These berries look like the same ones as before, but they taste odd, intensely sweet, but bitter at the same time.

"They're very sweet," I say.

"Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them," she says. "Haven't you even had them before?"

She has the second spoonful in my mouth before I can respond. I swallow the mash. The fever must be making me slow because I'm missing something...something I should know, but I can't put my finger on it. A warning bell is ringing in my head, but I'm so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open.

"No, but they taste familiar. Sugar berries?" I say.

"Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," she adds quickly.

Well, I guess Katniss would know, all that time she spends out in the woods. In the woods…all the warnings and fears and thoughts of the Games try to boil back to the surface, but I push them down. In this moment, I just want to be here with Katniss.

She pokes another spoonful at my mouth and I swallow it down.

My mind starts to drift drowsily back to a memory from my childhood, one of the few occasions my father was around to take care of me while I was sick. He gave me a medicine that every child in District 12 gets at one time or another, syrup, a thick red liquid that dulls pains and puts you to sleep.

"They're sweet as syrup," I say, eating the last spoonful in the pot.

"Syrup!" My eyes fly open and I try to spit as I realize what Katniss has fed me, but she clamps her hand over my mouth, forcing me to swallow.

Syrup.

Haymitch must have sent it to her, but why?

So Katniss could kill me, put me out of my misery?

For one second, betrayal cuts through me, sharp as Cato's sword, but I realize that amount of syrup wouldn't be enough to kill me outright. Too much to just take away pain, not enough to kill me.

This is to put me to sleep.

Why? So she can go to the feast, of course. It's the only reason to knock me out.

I pull out of her grasp and force a finger down my throat to vomit the syrup back up, but I can already feel its effects, I fight to stay conscious, but the bittersweet cocoon of syrup is already pulling me under.

I grab hold of Katniss' jacket, I want to beg her, bargain with her not to go, not to die for me, but I can't find my voice and all I can do is stare into her eyes, willing her to understand until darkness takes me.

For what feels like hours I struggle through the haze of syrup, fighting my way to wakefulness, but I'm paralyzed, my limbs heavy as stone. Move, move, I will myself, but it's no use. My mind is awake, but my body is locked in sleep.

And there is someone in the cave.

I manage to pry open my eyes and I see a figure at the entrance to the cave, outlined in shadow. I blink again and the figure is looming over me. I can't speak, can't move, can barely breath as the figure pulls out a syringe and jabs it into my arm. My heart roars in my ears, but I slip back into unconsciousness.

Finally, the boom of thunder brings me to full consciousness. I sit up and check my arm where a real needle is still sticking out of my skin. So it wasn't a dream.

The suffocating weight of fever has lifted and I'm sitting up in the darkened cave, freeing the needle from my skin, when the smell of blood hits me.

There. Lightning illuminates a figure, lying face down in a pool of blood next to me. In another flash, I see it's Katniss. An involuntary sound somewhere between a moan and a scream escapes my mouth.

I rush out of the sleeping bag so fast I don't even register the lack of pain. I turn her over with trembling hands, brushing blood stiffened hair from her face.

A long gash cuts across her forehead and her skin is cold, so cold and bloodless I think she's dead and my hands start to shake. But then she takes in a shallow breath.

It's faint, but she's breathing.

"What are I going to do with you? I'd rather be dead than scared like this. Don't you know that?" I babble to her too-still form as I pull her up into my arms and onto my lap, gathering her close until I can feel the strum of her heartbeat against my chest.

Was she always this small? I never saw Katniss that way before, but unconscious and engulfed in my arms, she seems tiny.

I'm still shaking with fear and adrenaline as I cradle her in my arms, holding her until I'm convinced her heart is going to keep beating and she's not going to leave me here alone.

In the flash of lightning, with the metallic smell of blood and sickness heavy in the damp cave, I finally make out the image on her district token and I start laughing through my tears. Suspended in the center of the golden circle, its wings spread as if ready to take flight, is a mockingjay.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

After a while, I pull off her wet boots and socks then carry her to the sleeping bag. I rummage through her first aid kit, grabbing the bandaging to dress her wound. Her eyes stay shut and I start worrying that this might be serious, that she's in some kind of coma, but I don't know what to do for her besides keep her warm and dry.

And even that is looking impossible. The rain is coming down in sheets, dripping into the cave through several cracks.

I search through her supplies again—the neat bundles of food, the night-vison glasses, the first-aid kit—and feel a vague tightness in my stomach that I have nothing of my own to offer. Curled in the bottom of the pack I find a square of flexible plastic. I fashion it into a cover over her head while she sleeps.

When night falls and the anthem plays, Clove's picture is in the sky, the image wavering in the rain and I can't help but feel something like sympathy for Cato, that he lost Clove when they both could have gone home. But then I realize how Katniss got that cut, how close I came to being the one mourning and my heart hardens.

After the death roll call, I take care of my own needs, then check the wound on my thigh which has gone down a lot since Katniss shot me with the Capitol medicine.

Hunger roars back to life after its week long hiatus. I'd almost forgotten what it feels like, but this is a powerful reminder. I eat some of the bird Katniss has been trying to feed me for days. I'm not turning my nose up at it now, it's food and that makes it delicious. I try to restrict myself to one piece, but hunger takes over and I wolf another two pieces.

I slide into the sleeping bag with Katniss and prop myself up against the wall, watching both the opening in our cave and Katniss for signs of waking.

The rain pours all night and continues into the gray cast day. Katniss still isn't awake, but she's no longer in the deathlike sleep from yesterday. Little things, like the way she shifts closer to me, how her nose scrunches up, tell me that she's waking up. I smooth the hair from her forehead, trailing down gently to stroke her cheek.

"Katniss, Katniss, can you hear me?" I whisper.

She opens her eyes, looking startled, but then focuses on my face.

"Peeta," she breathes.

"Hey, it's good to see your eyes again," I say.

I put the water bottle to her lips and help her drink.

"You're better," she says.

"Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick. By this morning, almost all the swellings in my leg was gone."

"Did you eat?" she asks.

I feel my face warming and I hope it's too dark for her to see me blush. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet."

"No, it's good," she says. "You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon."

"Not too soon, all right? You just let me take care of you for a while. How about you? Are you hungry?" I go and grab the bundles of wrapped food. "We still have more groosling and dried fruit. Which do you want?"

"Can't I have both?" she says and I grin.

She's a much better patient than I was, eating the bite size bits of food I give her and drinking water without complaint.

The rain doesn't stop and more water seeps into the cave. I take off my jacket and wrap it around Katniss' bare feet then slip back into the sleeping bag next to her. This storm, it's not a normal storm. The torrent doesn't slack, the lighting's a little too regular.

"I wonder what bought on this storm." I say. "I mean, who's the target?"

"Cato and Thresh," Katniss says immediately. "Foxface will be in her den somewhere, and Clove…she cut me and then…" Katniss stays quiet for a long moment.

"I know Clove's dead," I say. "I saw it in the sky last night." I hesitate before asking my next question but, I've been out of the action so long, I need to know what's been going on. "Did you kill her?"

"No. Thresh broke her skull with a rock," says Katniss.

"Lucky he didn't catch you, too." I say.

"He did. But he let me go," Katniss says, balling up the fabric of the sleeping bag in her fist. "He had a chance to kill me, Peeta, but he didn't."

"Why would he do that?" I ask.

"Because of Rue," she says before taking in a deep breath. "After I left the tree I teamed up with her. Actually, it was before that. She's the one who pointed out the tracker jacker nest in the first place…. You should have seen the way she could jump from tree to tree."

"I did hear something, I thought it was you," I say.

"I could never do what she did," says Katniss.

"Well, you put on quite a show yourself," I say dryly.

Her hand finds my sleeve, "That nest…"

"There's nothing to say, you did what you had to do," I say. "What happened when you and Rue became allies?"

"She told me about the Career's supplies by the lake," she says. "And we came up with a plan to get rid of it."

"Of course you did," I say. "Was that the day of the explosion? Did you set off the landmines?"

"That was me," says Katniss. "You heard it?"

"It was hard to miss." I say.

"I didn't know about the landmines until I got there and saw the netting and how everything was stacked. It took three arrows, but I shot one into a bag of apples and it set the whole thing off."

It was reckless, dangerous, and utterly brilliant. "You're amazing, you know that?" I say. I bend to brush a light kiss on her lips.

"But I'm not, Peeta. I was too close and the blast…" she trails off before saying in a near whisper, "I haven't been able to hear anything out of my left ear since the explosion. Do you mind…can you look at it?"

I'm lying on her right so I get up and circle around to examine her ear. Externally, the shell of her ear looks fine, but when I peer inside, the flesh is red and swollen.

"Unless Haymitch sends something, we're going to have to wait for the Capitol doctors to heal it," I say. "I'm sorry."

"I thought so, I just hoped…I don't know," she says. She looks so sad and lost I put my arms around her.

"What happened next?" I ask.

"Rue was supposed to lead the Careers away from the Cornucopia by lighting three fires with a lot of green wood so they would smoke, then meet up with me."

Ah, so that was part of Katniss' plan too. I wonder what the other tributes thought about all that.

"When she didn't meet me, I went to where she was supposed to light the last fire and she wasn't there either. That's when I heard her scream."

Katniss' voice takes on a flat quality, like she's reading facts from a book. "I got to her just as the boy from District One buried a spear in her stomach. I shot an arrow through his neck."

In spite of her distant words I can tell that what happened, both Rue dying and killing Marvel, hurt Katniss.

"Were the other Careers there?" I ask softly.

"No, just the boy from District One," she says.

Marvel killed Rue...and I saved Marvel back during the Gamemakers' attack. Even being miles away, I had a hand in that death. If I hadn't saved him, if I'd just let that falling branch crush him, Rue would have lived.

I hadn't thought much about it at the time, in that split second I'd forgotten where I was and reacted, pushing him out of the way. From the Capitol's perspective, the action would've been surprising, but not outside the unspoken rules. He was an ally, after all.

Saving Marvel, helping Feechee with the landmines that destroyed the hearing in Katniss' ear. It seems like good deeds come back to haunt you in the arena.

Beyond the guilt, there is a thought that I'm ashamed to admit to—that maybe is wasn't a bad thing that Rue died. Either Rue or Katniss would have to die anyway, being from different districts, they couldn't have both won.

I hate thinking like that, the way the Capitol and the Gamemakers want us to think, to forget about the loss of a little girl's life, see it as just part of the Games.

"I sang to her before she died," Katniss continues. "The song about the meadow. You know it?"

"The nursery rhyme?" I ask. Parents sing it to very small children. Not common in my house, but almost everyone knows it.

"She asked me to sing and that was the only thing I could think of. I used to sing it to Prim," Katniss says. She had been facing forward, staring at the dripping ceiling, not looking at me, but now she levels those clear gray eyes on my face.

"And when she died I covered her in flowers," says Katniss. "Afterwards, her District sent me bread. I think they meant it for her, but they let me have it instead. It was shaped like a crescent moon."

"District Eleven's bread," I say. No one receives gifts from another district. I didn't know it was possible.

"You taught me about the breads one lunch during training," she says. "And you taught me something else. I understand now, what you meant on the roof the night before the Games."

Showing the Capitol we are more than just pieces in their Games. I don't know how well I've done toward that goal, but I'm glad Katniss didn't let Rue's death go unnoticed, without mourning.

"And that's why Thresh let me go," she says. "Clove had me trapped and was bragging about the Careers killing Rue. Thresh heard her. After he killed her I told him about how his District sent me bread. He didn't want to be in debt to me because I helped Rue."

"He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" I ask.

"Yes. I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain."

"And don't try," I say. "Obviously I'm too dim to get it." Maybe she's right, because I don't get it. How did what happened with Rue change anything?

"It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that," she says.

"The bread? What? From when we were kids?" I ask. She can't still think she owes me for that. It was years ago and I never wanted anything in return for helping her. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead," I say.

"But you didn't know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," she says. "Why did you, anyway?

"Why? You know why," I say, staring down at her. She has to know how I feel after all this, but she shakes her head. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing," I mutter.

"Haymitch?" she says. "What's he got to do with it?"

"Nothing," I say before changing the subject. We talk about the remaining tributes, but the events of the past and her present wounds have exhausted Katniss.

"I want to go home, Peeta," she says, her voice sounding terribly young.

"You will. I promise," I say before kissing her again.

"I want to go home now."

I know the feeling. I'd love to be home in front of one of our hot ovens with loaves and loaves of bread in front of me. Away from the blood and the constant fear and death. So much death.

"Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," I say. "Okay?"

"Okay," she echoes. "Wake me if you need me to keep watch."

"I'm good and rested thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" Both of us here and not in mortal danger.

The Gamemakers have been strangely benign.

Two days have passed days since the feast, two days with no deaths. And before Clove died, there had been a stretch of three or four quiet days. The battle between Thresh and Cato might be entertaining them now, but what about tomorrow?

Katniss drops off the sleep without another word. The rain pours down harder, streaming through the cracks in the ceiling until the floor of the cave is partially flooded with water. I put the broth pot to use under one of the heavier drips and repositioning the plastic sheet to cover Katniss better while she sleeps.

After several hours of sitting I get up and check outside. When Katniss left for the feast, she used stones to wall up the entrance to the cave, making it less visible, so the opening is much smaller than it was before and from the outside it almost disappears. It's raining so hard I can barely make out the stream twenty yards below us.

I reposition some of the stones around the opening to make them look a bit more natural and shield us from the incoming rain.

By early evening the temperature's plummeted twenty degrees and I go sit on top of the sleeping bag next to Katniss. With nothing else to do, I can't stop looking at the bag with the food. Hunger has been gnawing at me for hours, but the food has to last and Katniss needs to eat. I have to wait. These are the Hunger Games after all.

At home, I never had to worry about food. I ate three times a day, even turned down foods I don't like. I think back to those days I refused spinach because I didn't like the taste of it, back when I had the luxury of saying no. I would love some spinach now, big heaping plates of it with cheese and garlic bread.

I wait another hour or so before waking Katniss, the nightly death recap will light up the sky soon and I don't think she'll want to miss that.

We split our dwindling supply of food—a couple pieces of groosling, some root vegetables, and a few rings of dried apple. It's not enough to satisfy one person, let alone two and it is gone almost as soon as she pulls it out of the sack. We finish by chewing a few mint leaves and that's the last of the food.

We make plans to go hunting tomorrow. I admit I've never been hunting before, but she doesn't seem to mind, saying I can gather and cook. I'm a little uncomfortable having to rely so much on her, but if it keeps both of us alive, I'll have to get over it.

The wavering projection in the sky shows us that there were no deaths today. Cato and Thresh continue to battle. Katniss asks me about Thresh's hiding place in the expanse of tall grass on the opposite side of the arena.

"I bet some of them are grain. I bet Thresh knows which ones, too," she says. "Maybe that's why Thresh looks better fed now than when we started the Games."

Thresh probably does know. He's from District 11, the agriculture district. Most of our flour at the bakery comes from there. Ninety percent of the produce goes to the Capitol, but they have to distribute some to the districts or we'd all starve.

"Either that or he's got very generous sponsors," I say. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread."

Katniss gives me a sideways look, her eyebrows raised. It's like the look she gave me when I told her she could kiss me, amusingly scandalized, but then it's gone and she's reaching for my hand.

"Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," she says, her voice playful.

"Yeah, about that," I say, lacing my fingers through hers. Alive and warm and here. "Don't try something like that again."

"Or what?" she challenges.

"Or…or…" I stutter. It's impossible to think when she's sitting next to me, for once actually smiling. "Just give me a minute."

"What's the problem?" she says, her smile growing wider. I sputter some more, caught up in looking at her. So this is what happy Katniss looks like. A guy could get used to that smile.

I look down at our intertwined hands to focus. "The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing," I say.

"I did do the right thing," she says.

"No! Just don't, Katniss! Don't die for me," I say. I can hear that I'm almost yelling again, but I have to make her understand that she can't sacrifice herself for me. I'm not her sister, I'm not Rue and if I had to choose between me or her dying, I'd choose me every time. "You won't be doing me any favors. All right?"

"Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who…who worries about…what it would be like if…" her voice falters, emotion turning her eyes silver.

Out of nowhere, it hits me that she's not pretending now, hasn't been pretending for a while. This isn't about the star-crossed lovers thing. She didn't say that for the Games or for the audience, maybe she didn't mean to say anything at all.

I hold my breath and wait for her next words, but none come out.

"If what, Katniss?" I ask.

"That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," Katniss mutters, looking down.

And then she's pulling away from me, not physically, but it's almost as bad, retreating behind one of her scowls and I want to break through, bring her back to me. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," I say, leaning into her.

I understand now why Cinna's fire moniker stuck to her and not to me. Kissing Katniss—really kissing Katniss—is like kissing a living flame, searingly hot and urgent.

Beyond the taste of the cave, the tastes of salt and earth, there's an unexpected sweetness. If it's possible, I pull her even closer, my hands sliding under the edge of her shirt seeking skin.

I have to force myself to pull back, remind myself how she's still not completely well, how we have an audience, one that includes both our parents.

Sure enough, when I pull away from her, I see that the bandage wrapped around her forehead is spotted with fresh blood. I kiss the tip of her nose.

"I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," I say.

I retrieve her socks, which have finally dried, and she gives me back my jacket, even though after a kiss like that I'm welcoming the cold of the cave. She insists on taking the first watch, even though it would be nearly impossible for anyone to attack in weather like this, but I make her get into the sleeping bag with me.

She puts on the pair of night-vision glasses and scrambles into the bag with me. I fall asleep with Katniss wrapped in my arms, her head pillowed against my shoulder.

After about four hours, she wakes me up for my turn. I take the night-vision glasses from her and she lays her head back against my arm, "Tomorrow," she says yawning. "When it's dry, I'll find us a place so high in the trees we can both sleep in peace."

Does she really think I can climb trees the way she can? I wouldn't have been able to do that before Cato cut me. I imagine myself eighty feet in the air trying to sleep. Peaceful isn't the word to describe it. I run my hand down her back. "I don't think so," I whisper, but she's already asleep.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Katniss doesn't get her chance to see me fall out of a tree because throughout the night and into the next day the storm intensifies, shaking the cave in its ferocity. A showdown between Thresh and Cato in this weather must have the audience glued to their seats.

It's a good thing that the audience is getting its entertainment somewhere else, because here in the cave we have nothing to offer. We sit against the damp wall, huddled together for warmth, trying to stay dry and not think about our empty stomachs.

Haymitch is taking his sweet time to send us food. It doesn't make sense. We have sponsors, surely one of them can spare a few loaves of bread? I almost go out in the rain to forage, but Katniss holds me back and I know she's right, but it's frustrating waiting here for…what? For either Thresh or Cato to die?

We nap through the day, our heads resting on each other's shoulders and take turns to stand guard, but it's really out of habit, not fear that someone will come after us.

Toward evening, when we're both awake, Katniss lifts her head from my shoulder and says, "Peeta, you said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?"

It's not a question I was expecting and I feel my face start to warm. You'd think I've done enough confessing in front of the world to last a lifetime, but no, apparently not.

Still, another part of me wants her to know, wants to say everything I've been holding back all these years, so I tell her about what my father said that first day school when I saw her and about hearing her sing during music assembly where the birds fell silent. For some reason, I leave out the part about the mockingjay and my mother, it's not really part of the story anyway.

Katniss doesn't remember that day, not like I do, I can tell by her surprised comments.

"Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you," I say.

"Without success," she adds.

"Without success," I agree. "So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck."

She gives a soft laugh, "You have a…remarkable memory."

"I remember everything about you," I say. I look over to gauge her reaction, but her hair has fallen out of its braid and covers her eyes. I tuck the strands behind her ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention."

"I am now," she says and it's my turn to laugh.

"Well, I don't have much competition here," I say.

Katniss takes a breath and swallows, "You don't have much competition anywhere." Then she's pressing her lips against mine.

Almost immediately a thump outside breaks us apart and Katniss has her arrow aimed at the door. I get up to look through the opening in the rocks and give a loud whoop. It's a parachute connected to a large double lidded basket. Haymitch has finally come through. I'm ecstatic despite his terrible timing.

I'm out in the rain handing the basket in to Katniss in less than a minute. When I've squirmed back in Katniss already has the basket open. I'd been hoping for a few loaves of bread, maybe some meat, but Haymitch has exceeded all expectations. He has given us a feast.

There are the fancy Capitol rolls, goat cheese, fresh apples, and a tureen of Katniss' lamb stew. They even sent along plates with the food.

"I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve," I say.

"I guess so," Katniss says elusively. I frown. It's almost like she's hiding something, but then the food distracts both of us.

It's been days, really weeks since either of us have had enough to eat and my first instinct is to gobble up every last bit of food, but too much food too fast can be dangerous.

Once, I saw a rerun of a really old Games, maybe the twentieth or twenty-first, where a tribute who'd been starving finally got food and ate it all in one sitting. He was dead by morning. At first, everyone though the food was poisoned, but it turned out he really did die from overeating. That much food was a shock to his weak system.

"We better take it slow on that stew," I say. "Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then."

"You're right," she sighs. "And I could just inhale the whole thing."

But we don't. Katniss portions out small helping of the food—one roll each, half an apple, and half a ladle full of the stew with wild rice. We both sit cross legged on top of the sleeping bag, the half full plates balanced in our laps. It's a picnic of sorts. Our first date.

Or was that the Reaping?

For a while, the only sound in the cave is of the metallic clink of silverware meeting china, then the food's gone.

"I want more," Katniss says looking longingly at the basket.

"Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving," I say.

"Agreed," say Katniss. "It's going to be a long hour."

My lips curve into a smile, "Maybe not that long. What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me…no competition…best thing that ever happened to you…"

"I don't remember that last part," she says archly.

"Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," I say. And it's true. Having Katniss and food has made me foolishly optimistic. For the first time it really sinks in that we might make it home, might have a future together, and all this might have been worth it.

We snuggle close in the sleeping bag.

"So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls," she says, turning to me.

I open my mouth, then close it again. What is this, a Caesar Flickerman interview? She's still looking at me, so I guess she really wants an answer. I find myself settling on...the truth. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you."

District 12 is small, I mean, I literally know every girl in school. After Katniss started hanging out with Gale Hawthorne regularly, around the time I was thirteen, I tried to forget about her, brush it off as a childhood crush, easily forgotten. So I went on a few dates, even had a girlfriend for about a month, but my heart refused to forget about Katniss Everdeen—there doesn't seem to be room in there for anyone else. About six months ago, I'd stopped even trying.

"I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," she says.

"Hardly," I say. "But I couldn't care less." My father wouldn't care, that kind of thing doesn't bother him at all, but my mother… that's another story.

"Anyway," I continue. "If we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village."

One of the rewards of winning the Hunger Games is a house in the Victor's Village, a community on the outskirts of town built exclusively for victors. The Capitol built one in each district complete with a dozen large homes with wide, manicured lawns.

"But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!" Katniss says screwing her face up.

Of course, Haymitch is the only person living in the village now. The other houses are boarded up and vacant.

"Ah, that'll be nice," I says, wrapping my arm more tightly around Katniss. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games tales."

Of course, it's a joke. If we make it home, I don't think any of us are going to want to relive our Games the way they do in the Capitol, but I have to wonder…what would it be like if I get home? Living all alone in a house in Victor's Village?

Of course, I'll have my family, but they won't be living with me. My parents have the bakery to run. Rieska's already living above the sweets shop. Hagan might come to stay with me, it's possible, but he was already planning to get his own place and the Village is so far from everything.

Katniss will be there, though. Her and probably her family, so it wouldn't be too bad. And we'll have lots of time then, to learn more about each other, get closer…

"I told you, he hates me!" Katniss says, breaking into my thoughts. She's laughing again. There are no words for how much I like it when she laughs.

"Only sometimes," I say, picking up the playful banter. "When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you."

"He's never sober!" says Katniss.

"That's right," I say. "Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire. On the other hand, Haymitch…well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you."

"I thought you said I was his favorite," she say.

"He hates me more," I say. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing."

She's silent for a long time and I think she's fallen asleep again when she mumbles against my shoulder, "How do you think he did it?"

"Who? Did what?" I ask.

"Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?" she says.

I'd never really thought about how Haymitch won his Games. Surprisingly, it's never come up at school although they do teach us about the Games.

I know he didn't win with through physical strength. I don't think Haymitch has ever been particularly fit, people who were muscular and let themselves go still have a beefy look to them, even if it's just fat now. Even young and sober, I can't imagine Haymitch being friendly or charming enough to inspire rich sponsors. So what skill does Haymitch have that would give him the edge?

"He outsmarted the others," I say.

And he did it all without a mentor. The only other victor from District 12 won the third Hunger Games, back before any district had a clear advantage. He'd been dead when Haymitch won his Games twenty-four years ago. Sure, the Capitol authorized the escort to make negotiations for the tributes, but how much would she have cared?

Katniss announces that she has to eat again after about thirty minutes and I don't disagree. She's fixing bowls of stew for us when the anthem starts. Katniss ignores it, but I go over to view the sky through the crack in the rocks. I have the feeling that there might be something to see tonight.

Although I haven't heard a cannon, the rain has been slacking for the last hour, not really perceptibly, it sounds as heavy as ever, but the broth pot I've been dumping out every hour is only three quarters full after an hour and a half.

The seal shows in the sky, rippling in the rain and then an image of Thresh hangs in the air. A sharp bite of disappointment rips through me. I don't know what I wanted— maybe I just didn't want Cato to win, maybe I understand more about owing favors than I thought—but I didn't want it to be Thresh.

"There won't be anything to see tonight," Katniss calls, still spooning the stew into bowls. "Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon."

"Katniss," I say, looking over to her. She ignores me and I can tell she doesn't _want_ to know, the way she's desperately focused on the food.

"Katniss," I say again, hating the Gamemakers and the Capitol for their grim reminder and for making me its messenger. Sheltered in our cave, laughing and joking, neither of us wants to remember that we are in a deadly game and that for us to go home more people have to die.

"What?" she finally says.

"Thresh is dead," I say.

"He can't be," says Katniss.

"They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it," I say.

Katniss rushes to the entrance and pushes me out of the way. What she sees convinces her that I was right and she slumps against the cave wall, wrapping her arms around herself, her face blank.

"It's just…if we didn't win…I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue," she says.

"Yeah, I know. But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve," I say, but the words sound hollow even to my ears. I pick up a plate and push it into her hands. "Eat. It's still warm."

Thresh's death means Cato will be hunting us down now and we have to be on the watch. No more lazy dozing in each other's arms.

The atmosphere in the cave has changed again, now that the Games have intruded. We are grim. We finish our meal in silence and I take the first watch, but Katniss doesn't go to sleep immediately, I hear little sniffles comes from under her hood, which she has pulled over her head.

She's crying, but I get the feeling she doesn't want me or the audience to know, so I sit there, listening to her cry for someone the Capitol made our enemy, that maybe back home could have been our friend. I realize how wrong I was when I thought she wouldn't mind killing the other tributes.

After a few hours I have to eat again, taking half a roll and topping it with goat cheese and slices of apple. I save the other half for Katniss. Everything is so fresh and good, but I barely taste it. I keep my eyes trained on the entrance and my hand on Katniss' knife.

Cato doesn't come and I wake Katniss when I'm too tired to keep my eyes open, holding out the other half of the roll with goat cheese and apple slices as appeasement.

"Don't be mad," I say. "I had to eat again. Here's your half."

She doesn't look mad at all and takes a giant bite of the roll.

"Mhmmm," she says.

I chuckle a little. "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery."

"Bet that's expensive," she says.

"Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course practically everything we eat is stale," I say, yawning. I scoot down into the sleeping bag, pulling it over my shoulders and sleep.

Katniss wakes me early in the morning, the rain has completely stopped and sunlight is shining through the cracks in the rocks, making her gray eyes shine like molten silver. I could get used to waking up to that sight. I pull her down for a kiss.

"We're wasting hunting time," she says grumpily, sitting up.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," I say.

We divide the rest of the stew and rice for breakfast. Katniss doles out huge helping of the food, promising we'll earn it all back during hunting.

The sunshine, the food, the prospect of going home makes me feel happy, somehow light like one of the balloons the Capitol released into the sky the night of the opening ceremonies and we laugh through breakfast, floating together in our own little world.

Everything changes once we leave the cave and reality sinks back in. We are still tributes and the Games are still on. The weight of Katniss' knife in my belt sits heavily at my side, reminding of the truth as I walk behind her. We stop to refill our water containers along the banks of the stream and then head into the woods, back to her old hunting grounds.

Katniss asks me to keep my ears open for any strange noise that might be Cato and I focus on our left, knowing she has no hearing on that side.

After a few minutes in the woods, Katniss turns to me, her face exasperated.

"What," I ask.

"You've got to move more quietly," says Katniss. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius."

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?" I say. "Sorry, I didn't know."

I attempt to walk more quietly, avoiding the big branches, but the ground is covered in pine needles and twigs. It's impossible not to make a sound. Well, impossible for me anyway. I listen as Katniss walks soundlessly, like a cat, her bow poised. Of course, I weigh fifty plus pounds more than her, so the comparison isn't really fair. And I told her I've never hunted before. If I'd known it required slinking around like a cat, I would have stayed at the cave.

We walk for another half hour, and just when I'm thinking I must be doing better when she turns around again, asking me to take off my boots this time. I do it grudgingly, tying the laces together again and hanging them from my shoulders, but walking barefoot over the lumpy terrain isn't something I would ever call pleasant, even if I wasn't still recovering from a nearly fatal leg wound.

We walk for hours to get to her hunting ground. This isn't what I thought hunting with Katniss would be like. I was thinking things would be more…lighthearted, the way they were back in the cave. None of the five or six words she's said to me since leaving would qualify for that term.

We stop for a water break and Katniss sits on a log near me, biting her lip and looking glum. We still haven't caught anything. I haven't seen any animals, even at a distance.

"Katniss," I say. "We need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game."

"Only because your leg's hurt," she says and you can tell she thinks she's being charitable, like she thinks I'd be a clumsy oaf no matter what.

"I know," I say anyway. "So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful."

"Not if Cato comes and kills you," she says gently.

So, along with being loud and clumsy, I'm also weak. That reminds me of what Cato was saying. Right before I stabbed him. I let out a laugh.

"Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?" I say.

"What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted." she counters.

She wants to put me somewhere out of the way so she can get down to the real business of hunting. Is this some kind of older sibling trait because I feel like I'm a little kid again, trailing behind my brothers, begging to play with them.

"What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" I say, mimicking her tone. "Just don't go far, in case you need help."

Katniss gives up and shows me how to dig up some of the root vegetables we had before. We agree on a signal—a two note whistle—and Katniss heads off to do some hunting.

I dig the knobby roots out of the rain soften ground until I have a large pile, then go and rinse them off at the stream, whistling to let her know I'm still nearby. I saw two small berry bushes near where I washed off the vegetables. They're the same ones Katniss had and I decide to pick some of those as well.

I carry all the food back to where I left the pack and the rest of our food: a few rolls, two apples, and a soft blob of goat cheese. I pull out the large square of plastic we used in the cave to divert water and pile the berries on top of it. I look down at our supplies. I think we have enough vegetables for now, but more berries might be good. I head back to the bushes, striping the dark blue fruit from the stems.

On the way back, I hear Katniss call my name, her voice shrill with fear. I run as fast as I can on my injured leg in the direction of her voice. I've made it to our meet up place when an arrow flies inches from my face, embedding itself in the tree next to me. I jump back, losing the berries in one of my hands.

"What are you doing?" Katniss yells. "You're supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!"

"I found some berries down by the stream," I say, but I'm bewildered. Why is she yelling? She's not the one that almost got skewered by an arrow. I look around for some threat that would have made her panic, but there's nothing.

"I whistled. Why didn't you whistle back?" she says.

"I didn't hear," I say. "The water's too loud, I guess."

I take another look at Katniss. Her shoulders are shaking, she's trembling…because she thought something happened to me. I go over to her and put my hands on her shoulders.

"I thought Cato killed you!" she screams, the words echoing off the trees.

"No, I'm fine," I say quietly to calm her down. I've never seen Katniss like this, almost out of control, the fact that we are in an arena with killers forgotten. I wrap my arms around her, but she doesn't respond.

"Katniss?"

She pushes my arms away and points a finger at me. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, all right?"

"All right," I say. I can feel myself getting angry, it isn't that I don't understand her point, I do, but it seems like I haven't done anything right in her eyes since we left the cave.

"All right," she says. "Because that's what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!"

She goes over to the food and opens a bottle of water. I take in several calming breathes. I tell myself that this situation reminded her of losing Rue, that's all. And we're both stressed, being back in the Games.

"And you ate without me!" she says.

"What? No, I didn't," I say. With our heavy breakfast, I haven't even been hungry.

"Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese," she says.

The cheese does look smaller, about a third of its original size. An animal, got into it, maybe?

"I don't know what ate the cheese," I say slowly doing my best to rein in my temper, "But it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?"

I hold out my other handful of berries. Katniss walks over and takes a few from my hand, looking hard at them.

At that moment, a cannon fires and Katniss' eyes snap back to mine. We stare at each other, confirming we are both still breathing when a hovercraft appears a hundred yards away from us and picks up a body, the red haired girl Katniss calls Foxface, her painfully thin body cradled between the craft's mechanical arms.

Her death means Cato is the last tribute between us and freedom...and he's hunting us right now.


End file.
